


By the Sword: Honor on the Moon

by JR_Castle



Series: By the Sword [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Betrayal, Family, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Justice, Moral Ambiguity, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JR_Castle/pseuds/JR_Castle
Summary: A childhood mishap gives Jon Snow a more intimate relationship with violence. In a world ruled by tyrants, where cruelty is the rule and war the expectation, will this lowly bastard join the bloodbath or find something else to fight for? AU with no White Walkers and a slightly OOC Jon gallivanting all over the Seven Kingdoms (and beyond).PART 2: Riding south with Tyrion Lannister's party, Jon Snow struggles with the thought of betraying their budding friendship for the benefit of his family. Once they reach the Mountains of the Moon, with war bubbling all around him, Jon must decide what kind of man he wants to be. But can he handle the consequences?
Relationships: Jojen Reed & Meera Reed, Jon Snow & Catelyn Tully Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow/Mya Stone, Jyck & Morrec, Tyrion Lannister & Jon Snow
Series: By the Sword [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702051
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 of a an AU series where the White Walkers do not invade the Seven Kingdoms. It will focus exclusively on Jon and his adventures. If you haven't read part 1, I recommend that you do so before coming here. You can find it in the link above, or on my page as "A Wish in Winter."

That night, Jon heard a rustle in the shadows. He reached for the scabbard lying at his side, eyes roaming about. The sound wasn't uncommon in the forest, and Jon had already heard many like it during his watch, but it never hurt to be careful.

The fire still lit their camp, though it burned low. Jon thought about feeding it some more from the bundle of twigs they'd plundered before dusk, but figured it was close enough to morning by now to let it burn out. His watch was the last of the night anyway, and the sun should peek over the treeline in naught but another hour.

The others slept nearby, Tyrion in his bedroll, Jyck and Morrec lying in their own beside him. They didn't so much as shift in their sleep, and Morrec even snored, though the sound was thankfully soft enough to get drowned out by the drone of wilderness. Yoren slept further from the fire, his back on cold, hard dirt. Luckily for the black brother, they'd managed to escape much of the snow further north. Had they not, Jon suspected Yoren would've still slept without so much as a coat of fur. The years of wondering up and down the kingdoms must've acclimated him to do with less than most.

Even the horses made less sound than he, tied to a tree nearby, their hooves planted firmly on the ground. Though Jon had seen it before, he still couldn't quite understand how it was possible for them to sleep upright. In this regard, as in many others, he supposed horses were far more fit to the road than the very men who built it.

Another rustle. Jon gripped his sword, making to get up, but by then it was too late. He felt a knife's edge on his throat and a hand arching over his shoulder and against his chest. It pressed on his wound, eliciting a gasp of pain.

Someone shushed behind him, too close to his ear. "Ah, ah," it said in the deep, gravely voice of a man. "Let's not wake 'em. Wouldn't want people losing out on sleep, would we?"

The knife slipped harder against his throat, and Jon felt some blood drip down it in a warm trail. Before he could say anything, a group of furred and cloaked figures slithered out of the forest, coming into view and lit in harsh shadows against the dim firelight. They all had some weapon out, two with steel blades, one with a wooden club, and the last with a roughshod spear, it's tip cut from what looked like stone.

The sound of their entrance—heavy footfalls, the brushing of twigs—woke the horses, and the following neighing and stamping woke everyone else. By the it did, they all found their intruders looming over them, arms raised in waiting threat.

Jyck nearly shot up from his bedroll, reaching for the sword at his side, but the spear at his chest kept him against the ground.

"Fuck's sake, woman," he said, "point that elsewhere!"

"And what's to force me, kneeler?" the spearwoman said, grinning down at him with a pale face framed in frazzled hair. Her accent, like that of Jon's own assailant, sounded far more stilted and sharp than any he'd ever heard.

"Wildlings," Yoren said. Propped up on his shoulders, the black brother hardly seemed awake and didn't bother to so much as glance at his own sword. He turned his head and spit on the dirt, fixing the bandits with a sneer. "And accompanied by some deserters as well, are yeh? How grand. What do you all want, before the law runs you all down?"

"What else's to want?" one of the deserters said, and now Jon could see that both men holding swords to their necks wore the Night's Watch furs, black leather seeping into the night. Standing over Yoren, the man smirked down at his old compatriot, bald head gleaming orange from the fire. "Ridin' with a Lannister, you're bound to be heavy on gold. Isn't that right, dwarf lord?"

Tyrion, who's eyes had followed the conversation in a sort of strained calm, coughed and spoke with a tilt of humor. "Of course, I've plenty to share. If you'll allow me, I'd be more than happy to hand it over and have us all part ways as friends."

The deserters both laughed, and hearing it, their wildling companions joined in.

The man with a sword to Tyrion's throat raised the blade, heaving it up on his shoulder. "I'll let you search through those saddlebags of yours," he said, "but don't think to play us for fools. Should we let you all go now, a Stark host is sure to comb this forest in search of us, or am I wrong?"

Hesitantly, Tyrion stood, though his eyes stayed on the deserter's blade. "I'm admittedly no Stark, and can therefore make no promises."

"We'll kill them all, then," one of the wildlings said, standing over Morrec. When the Lannister man made to roll upright, his club came down, smashing against the guard's back. Morrec groaned, clawing at the ground. "Bury the bodies, cover our tracks. No southerner could follow after us then."

"A sound plan, in most circumstances," Tyrion said. "Unfortunately, we're expected at Winterfell, the Stark seat. They're sure to search us out should we not arrive."

It was a lie, Jon knew. Tyrion hadn't sent any missive to Winterfell, under the assumption that whatever Jon might've wanted to tell his brothers he could say in person. The very message he'd meant to send before his decision to leave the Wall was rolled snuggly within his pocket, now with Benjen's signature.

But the deserter standing over Tyrion didn't know that. Even had he suspected it was a lie, the possibility of such a search was enough to stay his hand. He frowned down at Tyrion, uncertain.

"I suppose we could just take you prisoner…"

The bald deserter cursed at that, nearly turning completely away from Yoren. "Wallen, you shit, what'll we do with a bloody dwarf?"

"They'll give us plenty for his life."

"And cut off our heads right after!"

The wildling holding Jon growled under his breath. "Alright, both you damn crows better shut up!" he said. "We'll kill 'em! Those southrons won't follow us forever!"

It was in that moment that Jon realized how incredibly stupid these people all were, robbing travelers without a plan and already at each other's throats. It didn't sound like they'd known each other for long. Though the knife still cut into his neck, Jon felt, perhaps without good reason, little danger from it. Instead, he felt himself doused with a cold indifference bordering on exasperation. Something tugged at his mind.

"You make this all sound as if killing us will be easy," Jon said.

Everyone, even those form his own party, looked at him with some semblance of befuddlement. Wallen huffed out a chuckle, as amused as he was disbelieving.

"Have you any eyes, boy?" he said, hand gesturing to the others. "We have you matched in numbers and caught you entirely unarmed."

"You're wrong." Jon looked at his companions, meeting their eyes one by one, trying to express his intentions. They didn't seem to understand, save for Jyck, who tensed his shoulders in preparation. "Numbers and arms. We've still some left."

Wallen made to argue, but then a white blur leaped from the shadows behind him. Sharp teeth dug into his shoulder, and the man screamed, tumbling forward to the ground. Ghost, growling in wild rage, bit out the chunk of flesh and muscle, tearing it away with rabid strength before looking around at the others. Wallen screamed again, his shrill voice shattering the nighttime quiet.

In the same instant, Jon pushed on his captor's arm, holding it away, and elbowed the man's stomach. The wildling grunted, the grip on his knife tightening, but Jon ducked under it before he could think to do much else. By the time the man regained some awareness, Ghost was already pouncing on him, tackling him down, mouth wrapped around his throat.

Jon reached down for his sword, the ranger's sword Benjen had gifted him, and pulled it from its sheathe. Meanwhile, Jyck had kicked the wildling woman's feet from under her, distracted as she was by the pained wails of her fellows. She fell onto her side, and Jyck rolled up to his feet, hand finding his sword and swiftly pointing it at her chest.

The man watching Yoren raised his sword, meaning to bring it down upon the wandering crow, but he saw that Jon was nearly upon him. He chose to defend himself, blocking the boy's rushing strike, forced away from a Yoren who was himself too astonished by the sudden turn of events to do much of anything. Jon and the deserter were soon caught in a series of exchanges, steel ringing above the still night and the low crackle of fire.

As for Morrec, he'd hardly moved either, trapped like Yoren by his own shock. The wildling over him took advantage, laying on him with another blow from the club, this time striking him on the head with a sharp thwack.

Seeing this, Jyck cursed. "Morrec, you damn fool!" His eyes met those of the wildling woman, saw her growing fear. Cursing again, he brought his sword down on her spear, cutting the pole, and the impact even rattled the spear tip, undoing the bindings which kept it attached. Without another word, he ran to Morrec, who had by now raised his arms in defense against the club raining blows upon him.

The wildling saw him coming, club drawing back. But Morrec, head spinning, was conscious enough now to at least determine that this man was an enemy. The battered guard threw himself forward, holding the wildling's feet in place.

The wildling tried twisting out of the way, but Morrec's hold was too tight, fingers gripped roughly around his ankles. "You little leech!" he said, club coming down.

It never hit anything. Jyck reached him as the club swept low, and his sword found the wildling's gut, stabbing through with force enough to bend the man over his shoulder. He pulled it back just as roughly, then pushed the bleeding body away, so that the wildling landed on his back, hole gouged out from his stomach.

"Up!" Jyck said, hand held out to Morrec, who took it after a short moment. "Your sword, you idiot! Get your sword!"

Morrec blinked down, eyes searching, and bent down to grasp his sword with fumbling hands. His head felt too light, and he only then noticed the warm blood which ran down his temple. Jyck saw it too, but in lieu of commenting on it, turned instead to Tyrion, his duty now asserting itself with stoic priority.

The dwarf stood some feet away, back straight as steel, in the careful grasp of the wildling woman, who kept her stone spear tip pointed down at his neck. Holding it by the edge, blood dripped from between the woman's fingers. She looked between Jyck and Morrec, pupils shrunk, licking her drying lips.

"Don't come no closer," she said. The spear tip shook in her grip, and she bent awkwardly to hold Tyrion's shoulder. "Aye, that's far enough. No closer."

Tyrion, for his part, looked far less anxious, though the bobbing of his throat spoke to a near break of control. "Yes, that'll be close enough, you two," he said. "Let's all try to keep me alive."

Wallen's screams had by now fallen into a low groaning, one matched by the wildling Jyck had stabbed. Both lay nearby, hands closing around their wounds in a dazed desperation, skin nearly transparent.

The wildling woman looked down at them both, then up and over Jyck's shoulder. Jyck kept his own eyes on her, but Morrec followed her line of sight and saw Jon joined them. Yoren walked behind with the bald deserter before him, holding his sword to the man's neck.

"You fucking crows can't be counted on for nothing!" the wildling said, voice shrill. Her spear tip inched closer to Tyrion, who could only lean his head back in response.

The bald deserter only glared back at her. "This shit weren't my idea to begin with," he said. Then, spitting over at the wildling bleeding out on the ground, "But it looks like your friend there already paid for it!"

"Shut your mouth!"

"That's enough from you both!" Jyck said, stepping forward. The wildling woman tensed at that, but Jyck held up a hand to calm her, his sword pointed down. "Look around you. Whatever you meant to do failed. Let the lord go. Killing him now would only seal your own fate."

The woman heard a low growl from behind her. She turned her head to see Ghost, fangs bared, prowling toward her in slow steps.

"Get that beast away!" she said.

"Ghost!" Jon said. "Stay! Stay!"

The direwolf stopped, though his red eyes stayed beaded onto her, head low.

Jyck took another step, back bent, torso turned, as if approaching a wild animal. "Let him go," he said. "If you do, we'll not kill you, understand? Think it through. Let him go."

He was close enough now to reach out and cut her with his sword if he so wished. But Jyck merely held his hand out, head bowed, eyes steady. The wildling woman looked at him, at his hand, at the others. With a shaky breath, she slowly lifted her spear tip form Tyrion's neck, placing it gingerly on Jyck's open hand.

The guard immediately dropped the sharp stone and pushed her away, arm coming between her and Tyrion, who looked as if the invisible strings holding him up had finally been cut down.

"Morrec," Jyck said, and at his word said man came to grab at Tyrion's shoulders, pulling the dwarf away with gentle hands.

Left entirely defenseless, the wildling woman let some tears slip from her eyes. She looked down at Jyck's sword, her knees beginning to buckle. In a flurry, she dropped down to them, forehead nearly touching the ground.

"Give me my life, m'lord!" she said. "Give me my life and I am yours!"

Jyck looked down at her. After a moment, he sheathed his sword, strapping the weapon to his hip. "Lord Tyrion Lannister is the only lord here," he said. Turning to the dwarf, he arched a brow. "What say you, my lord?"

Tyrion had by now regained all the confidence with which he usually carried himself. Leaving Morrec's side, he waved a hand at the scene before him, walking over to his bedroll. "It's not me to whom she made her plea. I've no need for a wildling, but perhaps you might find something to do with her yourself, Jyck."

"And the man?"

At this, Jon looked at Yoren, who merely shrugged in response. "We'll take him to Winterfell with us," he said. "It's the duty of Lord Stark to pass judgement on oathbreakers."

Tyrion barked a laugh. "Lord Stark is far south by now, Jon."

"My brother Robb works in our father's stead," Jon said. Looking down, he frowned, as if tasting something rotten. "He should… He should be the one to deal with such matters."

"Truly? You seemed more than willing to perform those duties yourself at the Wall." Jon scowled at that, but before he could respond, Tyrion held a hand out in peace. "My apologies… It's not my habit to wake with a sword at my neck."

At that, Jon let himself deflate. He wondered if Tyrion had ever dealt with such serious danger before, then recalled that he himself never had until a mere few days before. Shaking his head, Jon looked at Yoren.

"Have you shackles," he said, "or should I grab a bit of rope?"

"I've a shackle or two, aye," Yoren said. He stepped away, sword sipping back into his sheathe. "I suppose I'll get some for the wildling too," he grumbled, walking toward his horse, hand pulling at his beard. "By the gods, I told the Lord Commander I'd need the prisoner cart…"

The bald deserter peered down at Jon, hands now free and rubbing at his wrists. "And you'll be the one to watch me meanwhile?"

Jon snorted, turning his back on the man. "No, _he'll_ be in charge of that."

The deserter turned at the sound of a growl, startled by the white direwolf who had so silently neared.

The sun had come up sometime during the battle, casting them in a faint grey light. Morrec went around packing, rolling their bedrolls up, quenching the last bit of fire. Yoren rummaged through his saddlebags. The wildling woman sat sullenly on the ground, near the nervous deserter and in the attentive watch of Ghost.

Jon, Tyrion and Jyck, on the other hand, appraised the bodies splayed around their campsite. Two were cold and lifeless, Wallen the deserter having already bled out, but the wildling with a sword wound in his gut struggled for breath still.

The three looked down at him, or at least Jon and Jyck did. Tyrion, for his part, had caught enough of a glimpse and had now turned his head away. "I suppose we might as well give him mercy," he said

Jon made to speak, but Jyck stepped forward before he could say anything, sword raised.

"I'll finish it," the man said.

To his shame, Jon felt some relief at that. He nodded, but unlike Tyrion he did not turn away when Jyck's sword came down in a spray of blood. These deaths, too, he kept close in memory.

Winterfell's walls were a welcome sight that late afternoon. They rose in hazy shapes out from the thin winter smoke that billowed up from Winter Town.

Having been gone for only two weeks, he'd thought along the way back that his return would feel no more monumental than it had after the hunts and trips he'd been on over the years. Once, he'd even been allowed to join Robb and his father on a journey to Deepwood Motte on Stark business. Lady Stark hadn't been particularly happy with the idea—Robb's presence was meant as a way to endear him to House Glover's own child heir, and so Jon's inclusion surely felt to her as another example of him undermining the authority of his trueborn siblings. But Eddard had insisted, and Jon had therefore gotten to know some of the wider world, if still within the North's borders.

Returning then, Jon had felt unsettled by the sudden return of normalcy. It had been a month-long trip, and in that time Jon had settled into the routine of no routine, waking for breakfast at a stranger's hall and lying to sleep on a stranger's bed. Coming back to Winterfell had been like living out a story about himself, knowing all the right motions yet performing them as a mummer would, conscious of some distance created within himself. This distance had closed with time, though it did so with a sense that something in his nature had changed. Jon had taken more to riding after that, having gotten used to days on the road, and though this newfound habit was small and made little difference to his life in the northern capital, he'd not ever considered doing it before.

Now, returning after a mere two weeks at the Wall, Jon knew immediately that this return would not result in the same inconsequential shift. One reason was that he'd not return for long—a day or two at most, as Tyrion had need to return south and Jon meant to join the Lannister's party—but a bigger reason was that Jon felt altogether changed. He knew it as soon as he saw the Stark banners waving distantly upon the ramparts, felt it as he and the rest trotted through the burgeoning afternoon market outside Winterfell's gates.

A lack of warmth. Not just thanks to the coming winter, which had already brought some smallfolk from the countryside to fill up the otherwise empty houses of Winter Town. Jon had expected some sort of familiar rush. But there were only stone walls and dirt paths and patrolling guardsmen, and to Jon these seemed mundane, not any more special than Castle Black save for its size and teeming society.

Though, maybe it had to do with his new company. The wildling woman, Osha was her name, walked behind them with hands bound and nary a complaint. The deserter, Stiv, had more than made up for the mundanity of the road, at times muttering under his breath, at others whispering plans of escape to a listless Osha, and in some instances merely screaming his many offenses. But now, with the walls and his coming sentence in sight, he settled into wary silence.

"Nervous to return home?" Tyrion asked, riding beside him. "Or will you find some way to sour even that for yourself?"

Jon met the jest with a roll of the eyes. "Are you ever nervous when you return to Casterly Rock after an extended absence?"

"No, I suppose not," Tyrion said. "But I've long ago abandoned all attempts at communal decency. Not to mention my extended absences are known by all to be temporary. You, on the other hand, have plenty of chums whom you've to justify your sudden change of heart. Any idea what you'll say?"

"I'll say the truth," Jon said, sighing. "And then I'll say a proper farewell. What more can I do?"

They reached the gates. Two guards stood stoically along each side while another looked down at them from the ramparts above, a bow surely in hand if not already drawn. As they neared, the guards brought their halberds up, crossing them before the gates and over the road.

"State your purpose, traveler," one said, looking pointedly up at Jon, who'd ridden ahead of the others.

Jyck's hand went to his sword, while Morrec and Yoren behind him seemed more put off by the man's tone than anything.

Tyrion's voice dipped low. "Well, you can start by endearing us to your countrymen."

Even as serious as Jon knew the Winterfell guards took their duty, he'd not expected such a terse welcome. Though, looking at the rest of the party, he supposed it made sense. Jyck and Morrec wore Lannister colors, and though he recognized one of the men preventing their advance, he supposed his own garb kept the guard from doing the same.

Luckily, Jon had no need to say anything as Ghost revealed himself to the others. Like his namesake, the direwolf came out as if from nowhere, padding before them all in silent steps. His red eyes searched them all, eventually settling on the men before him, as if just then noting their raised weapons.

The guards looked down at Ghost one of them backing away, the other approaching with a hesitant step.

"Hold on…" he said. His eyes went to Jon, then back to Ghost, then back to Jon again, gleaming in a new light. "That's… Jon Snow, is that you, boy?"

"Greetings, Quent," Jon said, smiling softly. "You've grown your beard thicker."

"For the snows, aye." The guard, Quent, looked over the rest of the party before returning his gaze to Jon, brow furrowed. "You've grown your wolf. Big enough when you left, but…"

Jon's own gaze went down to Ghost, and he himself noted how big the direwolf had gotten over the last two weeks. It wasn't much bigger, not truly, but Ghost was now clearly the size of any normal wolf, certainly on the bigger end. He'd once been the runt of the litter, a pup small enough for Jon to hold in a single hand. Looking at him now, Jon considered for the first time that the wolf would get large enough that riding him wouldn't be too far-fetched.

"I've come back, at least for a bit," Jon said. He thumbed at Tyrion and the others. "In the company of Lord Tyrion Lannister and his guard on their way south, as well as a brother of the Night's Watch. And there's an oathbreaker as well… Would you mind letting my brother know?"

Quent and the other guard looked at each other, some silent message passing between them. Jon and Tyrion did the same, though their own message only expressed confusion. Jyck looked bored, while Morrec and Yoren yawned and chatted away. Osha and Stiv lingered silently, and Ghost stared over them all.

"Is there something wrong?" Jon said, leaning forward. "Has something happened to Robb? To Bran? Rickon? Anyone?"

"In a matter of speaking…" The other guard shrugged at Quent, and the latter could only shake his head. He sighed, bringing a hand up to allay Jon's rattling nerves. "Nothing serious. I suppose you'd best speak to Lord Robb about it, however…"

He shouted at another guard, one further in. With a gesture of his hand, Quent sent the man off to the keep, likely to prepare those inside for visitors. Both guards then stepped back, their halberds rising with them and opening the way through. As Jon and the rest trotted forward, Quent inclined his head, eyes boring into Jon's with a strange weight. "Good to see you again, Jon… Lord Lannister…"

They rode into the yard, Osha and Stiv speeding their pace, and Jon could suddenly hear all the familiar sounds. The pounding of steel echoing from Mikken's forge. The barking of hounds, likely in the middle of their lunch, piling around and tearing into juicy cuts of meat. He saw too the servants gossip as they carried a dead elk into the kitchens, its legs tied and antlers cut out, likely stashed elsewhere.

The more Jon tried to immerse himself in these sounds, the more he noticed with suspicion the few details which only served to water the budding anxiety in his chest. The guards, both those at the walls and those closer on the yard, seemed to stare at his back the closer he came to the stables. He waved at those he recognized, and though they waved back, some shocked and others merely bemused by his presence, he always noted their lingering gaze out the corners of his eyes. And it wasn't only them; the more Jon recognized this attention, the more he saw it in the others. The gossiping servants would spot him, then those behind him, and begin whispering among themselves, voices lowered. When he passed by the forge, Mikken shouted a greeting, but Jon heard no following clink of hammer on iron when his horse carried on.

Most telling, Jon noticed that the Library Tower seemed burnt and in pieces, though it remained standing for the most part. Had there been some fire?

When they did reach the stables, Joseth blinked at the sight of them, as if to dispel a mirage. The new master of horse—as Hullen had ridden down with Lord Stark and the king—strode over toward them, hand reaching for Jon's reins.

"Jon? I thought I'd never see you again."

"You're not alone in that," Jon said, unmounting. He allowed the thin man to lead Steelfoot into the stable, and with a look to the others, raised a hand to cup his mouth. "Oh, and Joseth! Could you watch these others as well?"

The man paused, turning with a twitch of the head. "Ah… Of course. Just leave them there, I'll get right to it…"

Jon and Tyrion shared another look, before Jyck and Morrec and Yoren all dismounted. Morrec went to help Tyrion down, the dwarf unstrapping himself from his special saddle. Soon enough, they all stood rather awkwardly by their horses, waiting on the master of horse to return. When he did, he looked them all over once more, then reached for the reins of Tyrion's mare.

"It's nice to see you again, whatever the case," Joseth said, voice stilted. "You'd best go see Lord Robb, then. I'm sure he has… much to share with you."

"Aye," Jon said, head tilting. He looked at the others, shoulders shrugging. "Well… Come, I suppose I'll lead you all there."

They began walking, and by this point Jon saw that Jyck, Yoren, and even Morrec had sensed something peculiar in the air. Their eyes surveyed the yard and all those on it, all their hands drifting closer to the swords at their hips, Jyck going so far as to lay his on the pommel. Ghost, silent as ever, followed. Their boots crunched against the thin layer of snow underneath.

Tyrion waddled close, and without turning to look up at him, spoke in a voice barely audible. "Not the friendliest reception," he said, hands clasped behind his back.

"What's wrong, little dwarf?" Stiv said, smiling for the first time since his hands were bound. "Used to everyone suckling at your teat?"

Tyrion ignored him, as did everyone else, even as the man laughed harshly at his own joke. Jon just shook his head. "Something must've happened," he said. "Something public. That, or the rumor mill found new material."

"They'd best be this wary of all outsiders," Jyck said, gruff voice slipping from behind them. "Elsewise I'd feel insulted."

Jon had no response, and so merely stayed silent, leading the party toward the great hall. Once they reached the doors, another pair of guards met them, standing at either side, though thankfully they didn't move to block the way. Instead, both inclined their heads.

"Lord Lannister," one said, "Lord Robb awaits inside."

"So soon?" Jon asked.

One of the guards looked at him, face dour. "He's just got done receiving the smallfolk," he said. Without another word, they went to push the doors open.

Inside, the hall was vaguely lit by the darkening light of the day oozing through the windows, and Jon could see Robb's shape sitting on the high chair down the middle.

Jon looked down at Tyrion, stepping out of the way, and the dwarf smirked before taking the lead. The rest followed after him, entering the hall in rows of two; Tyrion at the front, Jyck and Morrec at either side of him, Yoren and Jon behind them, then their captives, and Ghost striding in at the rear.

Without his meaning to, Jon felt his nerves spark at the way rows of guards flanked them at either side of the hall. He'd seen it before, of course, as Eddard had always kept some around even while hearing plaints from the township. But it had never been quite so many, a dozen in all. In an insane moment of instinct, his own hand reached up to his hip, grabbing at air—he'd left both swords clasped to his saddle with Steelfoot. He nearly cursed himself for it, before feeling foolish for the urge to do so. What reason could he have for needing a blade within the walls of Winterfell?

As they neared, Jon saw Theon Greyjoy standing proudly at Robb's right. Hallis Mollen, once merely another guardsman, stood left of the high seat of the Starks. The seat was cold stone, polished smooth, the carved heads of direwolves snarling on the ends of its massive arms.

As for Robb himself, the Stark heir sat on the same chair their father so often sat, a smaller, wooden thing, decorated humbly with the Stark insignia at its back, like a shadow to its greater and more imposing brother. The heir glanced briefly at Jon, his eyes soon narrowing on Tyrion even as the dwarf and the rest bowed their heads.

Jon, of course, made sure to do the same. As he did, he noted the sword drawn across Robb's lap, the steel bare. He noted also the ringmail his brother wore, draped over boiled leather, as if ready to march off to battle. It was then that Jon understood that the stilted atmosphere they'd all felt was one of enmity.

"Tyrion Lannister," Robb said, voice dry, "I suppose you've had a good go of it here in the North?"

"So far, I have," Tyrion said. His voice was light, though Jon noticed the fidgeting of his fingers, grasping at air in gentle arcs. "I'll admit, however, that the thought of getting snowed in up here doesn't appeal to me, and I do miss the coast."

"And who is that? Jon Snow?" Theon leaned forward, eyes narrowed and lips curled in impish delight. "Don't tell me even the Wall couldn't stomach a bastard."

Jon had been expecting it, if not from anyone else then surely from Theon of all people, so he hardly blinked at the words. "They've plenty of those already," he said. "I figured one less wouldn't hurt them much."

"They cast you out for that tongue, more like."

Robb shot Theon a glare, or rather he merely took the glare already in place and pointed it sideways at the Ironborn ward. "And what of you all? What brings you to my seat?" he said, looking over Yoren and the two captives.

Yoren inclined his head once more, though the gesture looked more the result of a tired swoon than a sign of respect. Still, he managed to put a fist over his heart as was the custom. "My name's Yoren, m'lord. A brother of the Watch out to recruit along the roads, here at your hall in want of bread and salt for naught but a night. As for these two," he turned his head at Osha and Stiv, and both fidgeted at the attention of the whole hall. "A band o' brigands caught us unawares just this morn'. This is what's left of 'em. As you can see, an oathbreaker awaits your justice, and the other's a wildling, though I hardly know what you might do with her."

Robb hummed in the way Jon had seen their father do so often. "In that case, you might leave the deserter in the hands of my guardsmen. He'll await my sentence tomorrow in the comfort of a cell."

He flicked a finger, and at his command two of the guardsmen standing by the walls stepped forth. They walked to Stiv and took him from Yoren's grasp.

"As for the woman…" Robb rubbed his chin, and Jon noticed there the beginnings of a beard, growing in thin patches as it was. "Well, I've not had a wildling in my hall yet. Captain Hallis, what do you think?"

Jon raised a brow at the title, even more when the bearded man cleared his throat with some authority.

"I don't trust any wildling," Hallis said, his heavy voice carried by the echo of the hall. "And from the sound of it she's taken up the life of a road robber. I don't expect that she'll bend to northern ways"

Robb sighed. "Though she's an outlaw, I'd rather not have to kill a woman…"

"If I may, my lord…"

They all turned to Jyck, who's expression remained stony even under the gaze of Robb and all the Stark guardsmen.

"The woman would do well to work as a servant and learn these northern ways of yours," he said, and at his words Osha turned to him in a mixture of confusion and anger, though she didn't express it. "Should she not prove useful, you might then kill her and not have wasted what little worth she might've had."

"She's already begged for her life," Jon said, stepping in before Robb or Theon could grow angry at being advised by a Lannister servant. "Though she's chained now, she had plenty of opportunity to escape or take her revenge on our way here. I think it a good enough idea."

Robb looked at him, gaze heavy, then sighed again. "Very well, then. What say you, wildling? Will you kneel to me now, and live by our laws?"

Looking around her, Osha slowly knelt. "If it please you," she muttered sourly, head bowed. "… M'lord."

Jon felt his breath loosen as the woman stood at Robb's nod. To strengthen his relief, Tyrion spoke again, treating the matter as settled.

"You'd do well to question her on matters north of the Wall," the dwarf said. "I was meaning to inform you per Lord Commander Mormont's wishes, but I figure an eye witness would be best."

Robb nodded stifly, then looked at Yoren, who stood through these talks in some impatience. "As for you, Yoren, worry not," he said. "I'll set a room aside for your convenience, and you may eat at our table tonight. Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay."

"Any man of the Night's Watch," Tyrion repeated, "but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?"

Robb's scowl returned as he stood and pointed at the little man with his sword, and at this Jon bristled in shock. "I am the lord here while my mother and father are away, Lannister. I am not your _boy_."

"If you are a lord, you might learn a lord's courtesy," the dwarf said, ignoring the sword point in his face. "Your bastard brother has all your father's graces, it would seem."

Jyck and Morrec didn't seem quite as cavalier about the blatant threat, however, and the former nearly pulled his sword out then and there. The only thing that stopped him was a gesture from Tyrion, barely a twitch of his finger.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps thudded from the stairs by the corner of the room. In came Maester Luwin, and behind him the massive frame of Hodor, who cradled a bundle of limbs against his chest. With a start, Jon recognized this bundle as Bran, his little brother wrapped up like a baby in his furs.

"Jon," Bran gasped out from Hodor's arms.

The dwarf looked at Bran too, brow drawn up. "So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it." If it were possible, his voice took on a tone more sardonic. "You Starks are hard to kill."

"You Lannisters had best remember that," Robb said, lowering his sword. "Hodor, bring my brother here."

"Hodor," Hodor said, and he trotted forward smiling and set Bran in the stone seat alongside Robb's.

A mistake, in some sense. Even as children, Lord Stark had made it plain that none were to sit on it, though what punishment there came only took the form of stern words. The seat was where the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves the Kings in the North. No Lord of Winterfell had sat it since Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror centuries before; to do so would be a matter of implicit treason towards the one true throne in the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet the ancient seat stood there still, carved out of the ground itself, a history which would never rot or rust. And Hodor must've merely thought it a convenient place to lay Bran's slack form. None commented on it, partially because the atmosphere was tense enough to begin with, but also because, as Jon sadly saw, Bran did not prompt much authority atop it.

Bran clasped the stone direwolf arms as he sat, his useless legs dangling like those of a puppet. Jon had to bury the hitch of his chest which burst forth at the sight of them. The two met eyes, and Jon tried his best to smile.

"Hello, little brother," he said. Then, looking sideways at Tyrion, he stepped forward. "Actually, my lord, you'll be pleased to know that Lord Tyrion has expressed some sympathy at Bran's current state. In fact, he's brought a gift."

At this, Robb's eyes narrowed further. "And what gift have you for my brother, Lannister?"

Tyrion scowled at Jon, who merely shrugged. H turned to Bran, face worn. "Do you like to ride, boy?"

Maester Luwin came forward. "My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs. He cannot sit a horse."

"Nonsense," Tyrion said. "With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride."

Bran shot forward at that, nearly falling from his seat. His voice came hoarsely. "I'm not a cripple!"

"Then I am not a dwarf," the dwarf said with a twist of his mouth. "My father will rejoice to hear it."

Theon laughed, as did Stiv behind them. Jon, for his part, fought the urge to kick the Lannister. He recognized the same wisdom which Tyrion had shared with him weeks before, but did not feel this to be the proper time, nor those the proper words, particularly as Robb's frown seemed to deepen with each syllable spoken by the dwarf.

Luckily, those same words seemed to pique Maester Luwin's interest. "What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?"

"A smart horse," Tyrion said. "The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned." He drew a rolled paper from his belt. "Give this to your saddler. He will provide the rest."

Maester Luwin neared and took the paper from the small hand. He unrolled it, studied it. "I see," he said, nose nearly touching the parchment. "You draw nicely, my lord. Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself."

"It came easier to me, Maester. It is not terribly unlike my own saddles."

"Will I truly be able to ride?" Bran asked. Looking at him now, Jon saw that the temper in him had changed, the furrow of his brow drawn up in fragile hope.

"You will," Tyrion said. "And I swear to you, boy, on horseback you will be as tall as any of them."

Jon smiled, and now it came easy. Hopeful himself, he looked over at Robb, whose own glare had disappeared as well, though it was replaced by puzzlement.

"Is this some trap, Lannister?" he asked. "What's Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?"

Tyrion placed a hand over his heart and grinned. "Jon asked it of me. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things."

Slowly, Robb seemed to deflate, as did Jyck and Morrec and even the guardsmen, all much to Jon's relief. Whatever the Stark household had been expecting, it seemed they hadn't quite gotten it. Once again, Jon felt as if he were missing some important detail, and although his absence had ensured this, he still couldn't help but feel, perhaps childishly, as if he'd been excluded from their counsel.

Then, the door to the yard flew open, and Rickon burst in, breathless, his small feet pattering against the stone. Behind him came the direwolves, Grey Wind and Sumer and Shaggydog, all of them grown from the pups they were before.

The boy stopped by the door, wide-eyed, but the wolves came in. Almost immediately upon seeing him, or perhaps having already smelled his scent outside, they neared Tyrion. Summer began to growl first. Grey Wind picked it up. They prowled toward the dwarf, a pack on the hunt.

"The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister," Theon noted, as if trying to keep his voice light, but it was obvious to all that he was just as taken aback as everyone else.

"I see that very well," Tyrion said, struggling to keep calm. "Perhaps I'd better take my leave." He took a step away from the nearing wolves.

As he did, Shaggydog came out of the shadows behind him, snarling. Tyrion recoiled, and

Summer lunged at him from the other side. Grey Wind lunged also, ready to bite at his arm, but in that moment a white blur came between them. Ghost scuffled with Grey Wind, both beasts growling and snapping at each other with more fury than they ever had before. Watching them, shocked into paralysis as everyone else, Jon had the sudden realization that they might actually be trying to kill each other.

Robb seemed to realize this too. "Grey Wind!" he shouted, voice booming across the hall. "To me! _To me_!"

At his command, Grey Wind retracted himself, jumping back with a snarl. Ghost found his footing and slowly neared his brother, snarling also, still smelling blood.

"Ghost," Jon said, voice markedly lower than Robb's. It was enough, however, and at once the direwolf stopped his prowl, standing instead in a ready crouch.

Summer and Shaggydog also rumbled at the throat, moving about around Tyrion, but Ghost stood between them, red eyes following their every step.

"Bran, Rickon," Robb said, tone wavering. "Call them off."

Bran was the first to wake from his daze. "Summer, here!"

Glancing from him to the dwarf, Summer crept away, settling at Bran's dangling feet. Rickon, having watched all these events with widened eyes, ran first to his brothers, stopping next to Robb before screaming down at his own wolf.

"Home, Shaggy!"

The youngest direwolf, fur blacker than all his brothers, snarled one last time at Tyrion before bounding over to his owner, and Rickon hugged him tightly around the neck.

In the sudden burst of violence, Jyck had fully bared his steel, as had Morrec. The former stared gravely at the wolves, still tensed for action, while the latter glanced nervously down at Tyrion, who had begun mopping at his brow with his scarf.

"Are you hurt, my lord?" Morrec asked.

"I've gone and dampened my breeches, but nothing was harmed save my dignity," Tyrion said. He looked at the white direwolf beside him. "I always knew I liked this one more than the rest for a reason."

Robb looked shaken. Looking at him, Jon saw that the Stark heir had now fully lost the guise of lord that he'd taken up at their audience. Now he looked far more like the Robb Jon had known before leaving: a boy of four and ten just like himself. "The wolves… I don't know why they did that…"

"Perhaps they thought me small enough to snack on," Tyrion said dryly. He bowed to Robb, stiff and hurried. "I thank you for calling them off, young lord. And now I will be leaving, truly."

"A moment, my lord," Maester Luwin said. He moved to Robb and they huddled close

together, whispering. Jon heard not what they were saying, but from Robb's pinched expression he could guess it was embarrassing.

As the maester moved away from him, Robb sheathed his sword. "I… I may have been hasty with you, Lannister" he said. He seemed to be looking over their heads at the open door behind them, as if unable to bring his eyes to theirs. "You've done Bran a kindness, and, well… The hospitality of Winterfell is yours if you wish it, my lord."

"Spare me your false courtesies, _boy_ ," Tyrion said. He'd finally managed to compose himself, but with that composure came a quiet anger Jon had yet to see in the Lannister. "You've made it clear that you do not want me here. I saw an inn outside your walls, in the winter town. I'll find a bed there, and both of us will sleep easier. I might even find myself a wench for my trouble."

The dwarf twisted on his heel, hand waving at his men. Jyck and Morrec sheathed their blades, and at this the guardsmen all around them seemed to shift their feet.

"Jon, Yoren, we go south at daybreak," Tyrion said, already walking to the entrance. "You will find me on the road, no doubt." With that he made his exit, and his men followed.

Watching him leave, Jon felt a peculiar split in himself. He thought to follow the dwarf out, but as soon as he did he refused to do so. Turning to Robb and his other brothers, Jon breathed in, and to his small comfort, Ghost walked up to him, standing by his side. He drew what little solace he could from that.

The godswood lay in a cold haze that evening. With winter now upon them, few orange or red leaves littered the ground. White wood, naked trees rose up from the cold dirt, their roots surrounded by the natural mulch of their own creation. The pond had not yet frozen over, but even now Jon could see the lack of frogs and, and having dipped his hand upon its surface he knew it wouldn't be long before ice formed over its still waters.

Robb found him sitting there on the ground. He neared with Grey wind at his side, and two wooden training swords in his hands. Before Jon could say anything, he had to catch one of them against his chest.

"I know you want to talk," Robb said, standing over him, "but I also know you've the urge to give me a beating, so I thought we'd settle that first."

Jon looked at the wooden sword now in his arms. Ghost, having been resting beside him, now looked up as Grey Wind came. The two wolves sniffed at each other, both tepid, before dashing off together into the woods. He turned his head up at his own brother.

"What?" Robb said, raising his blunted blade. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in your time away."

"You'll wish I had," Jon said, standing up. He unclasped his cloak, letting it fall, before raising his own sword. The two looked at each other, both waiting and watching. They hear the barking of the wolves and the drift of a wind unencumbered by leaves.

Robb struck first. An overhead swing, aimed down at Jon's shoulder. Jon parried it, letting the blade slide down his own, before replicating the move, Robb's guard now completely open. As his arm came down, Robb caught it by the wrist, and before Jon could pull back, Robb twisted and threw him over onto his back.

Jon hit the ground with a gasp, his bad shoulder spiking up, but he had to roll onto it to avoid Robb's ensuing stab. Straining his shoulder even more, Jon used the arm attached to it to throw himself back onto his feet. He parried another swipe, then blocked the following one, trapping Robb's sword against his guard. Jon twisted the blade, trying for a disarm, but Robb drew back and pulled his sword with him.

They circled each other, waiting again, though now Jon couldn't deny the intense soreness that consumed his shoulder and a good part of his chest. He was reminded that Robb had learned long ago not to take it easy on him. Years of getting pounded on the training yard had forged Robb's swordplay into one of desperation, where any opening was to be exploited and any vulnerability on his own part was to be escaped from.

Thinking on this, Jon went on the offense with a heavy step forward and a heavier swing around at Robb's arm. The other boy parried it easily aside, of course, as Jon had made sure to draw his arm back in preparation. But where this should've had him stumble, weight suddenly displaced, Jon instead leaned into the swing and spun all the way around on the tip of his toes. He ducked under Robb's follow-up slash, and as he turned his other leg came around and kicked into Robb's ankle, tripping it and sending the other boy tumbling down.

As Jon finished his spin, he lay the tip of his blade on Robb's chest, pressing down lightly.

"I believe that's a win for me," Jon said, breathing heavier.

Robb's own breath matched his. With a groan, the Stark heir propped himself up on his elbows. "You're as sneaky as ever, Snow," he said. Curling up to sit, he rubbed at the back of his head, fingers digging into his red curls. "That hurt."

Jon sat as well, sword propped against his good shoulder. He put a hand on his bad one, pressing on it experimentally and flinching each time he did. "You can take it, my lord."

Robb shoved him, and Jon laughed. "It's a rot," Robb said. "You're lucky not to inherit that seat, Jon. It's worse than all our arithmetic and etiquette lessons put together."

"I'd hope so, seeing as it's why you sat through them."

"Rickon's started to as well," Robb said. "Reading, at least. Maester Luwin's taken advantage of mother's absence and started on him early. I think he hopes to have at least one of us take some interest in his work."

"If Rickon's his last hope, I truly do pity him."

At this they both laughed. Rickon could hardly keep still to eat, and that was something the youngest Stark actually liked doing. The thought of him holding a book, much less reading it, seemed as fantastic as Old Nan's tales.

But as their laughter waned, Jon felt the mood turn once more. Without the adrenaline of battle, he returned to those same churning thoughts which had assailed him ever since he'd returned to Winterfell.

"Where _is_ your lady mother, anyway?" he asked. "I thought she'd stayed to help you during father's absence."

"Are you saying I can't take care of things myself?" When Jon only sent him a deadpan look at that, Robb grinned. His expression then became one of ponderous worry, and he looked down at the ground between his feet. "She left shortly after you all did. It's… Well…"

Jon leaned closer. "What? Robb, it's clear something's happened. Tell me."

Robb's face was uncertain, but when he saw the severity in Jon's look, he sighed, nodding. "You'll not like it, but… The truth is, after you and father left, there was an attempt on Bran's life."

Jon rose at that, as if drawing back from a sudden flame. "An… Someone tried to _assassinate_ him? Is he alright?"

"Yes, Jon. He's fine." Robb waved him down, and after a moment Jon sat again. The two inclined their heads close, and the night served to nurture the a conspiratorial air which had now encircled them. "You saw him. You talked to him. All's fine with Bran, but it's the assassin we should be worried about. Or rather, the one who hired him."

"And who's that?"

"We don't know for certain, but…"

"… But?"

Robb looked at him, eyes steady. "The knife he carried was Valyrian steel, with a dragonbone hilt." At Jon's frown, he nodded. "A bit gaudy for your average catspaw, isn't it? Mother thought so too. We think it the work of another great house. One who just recently slept under our roof."

"The Lannisters…" Jon's voice bled with revulsion even as he said it. "But how can we know for certain? They left along with father and the king."

"Mother left with Ser Rodrik to investigate in secret, and took the knife as evidence to father in King's Landing. We'll see what comes of it, but Jon…" Here Robb grabbed Jon's arm, eyes boring into his. "As you ride south with the Imp, keep your eyes open. Perhaps he's got a clue on hand."

"Tyrion wouldn't do such a thing!" Jon said harshly. It came without warning, and at Robb's flinch he calmed, almost out of guilt. He looked down, hand once more going to his shoulder. "I mean… You saw his gift to Bran. What reason could he have to help someone he plotted to murder?"

Robb was silent. As they each thought over their words, Ghost and Grey Wind came bounding into sight, nipping at each other like always. Watching them, Robb smiled again, though it came softer than before.

"Have you ever gotten the impression that those wolves of ours know more than we think?" Robb asked, and Jon looked up at him, if only due to the sudden change in subject. "Sometimes, looking at Grey Wind, I feel … I can't really say, but it's like he can understand me without my having to say anything at all. Does that make sense?"

Slowly, Jon nodded. "I've felt the same with Ghost," he admitted. "Sometimes, it's like my commands to him aren't made with words. Like I say them out loud due to nothing but… Well, my own comfort, I suppose."

"Exactly." Here, Robb's smile faded. "In the hall, when the wolves barged in, I could hardly believe it. They've never been so wild. Even Shaggydog doesn't get like that without good reason. A part of me thought that they might know something I didn't."

"You thought they could smell the blood on Tyrion's hands," Jon said, and Robb nodded. His frown deepened as the wolves neared them, settling at their side, and Jon almost instinctively reached over to scratch at Ghost's ear. "Mayhaps… But in that case, why did Ghost defend him? Isn't it just as likely that they merely reacted to your own suspicions?"

"It's possible," Robb said, Grey Wind setting his head on the boy's lap. "But we can't know, can we? Look, all I'm asking is that you stay attentive. We can't do anything without evidence regardless."

"I just…" Jon gulped, struggling with the words. "I just can't see him as a murderer."

"And if he was?" Robb asked, and at this Jon's ministrations on Ghost stopped entirely. "If he's the cause, or if he knew… Were he guilty somehow, you can't hesitate, Jon. Bran almost died. Had it not been for Mother and Summer and a heap of luck, that Valyrian steel would've stuck him dead. It's an act of war."

 _War_. The word bounced around his head in fits and stops, and Jon smelled blood again, and his wound flared, and he remembered what Arya had said in the crypt in what felt like so long ago.

_If I do kill anyone, it'll only be evil men._

"If he's at fault…" Jon tasted each word as it came, and they tasked sour. "If he is, I'll deal with him myself."

Robb's grip on his arm tightened. "For our family."

"Aye," Jon said. "For our family."

Ghost looked up at him, pawing at his hand. Jon's hand returned to the wolf's head, petting it, comforting himself just as much.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun barely peeked into sight, and as it did they walked out to the yard. Robb dressed in a lord's jerkin, a grey Stark cloak draped over his shoulders, whereas Jon had donned the same black leathers he'd traveled with from the Wall. Both were joined by their wolves, who padded behind them.

"I've yet to replace our good septa either," Robb was saying, pulling on his gloves. "You'd think we'd have no need with the girls gone, but it turns out some of our stewards were learning their numbers from her. Maester Luwin is of course too busied with the boys and his research…"

"It's not too late to join me," Jon said with a laugh.

"And it's not too late for you to stay. Mayhaps you'll sit the chair a bit and allow me some rest."

They reached Joseth at the stables, their horses already saddled.

"Safe goings, my lord," Joseth said, handing Robb the reins of his brown stallion.

Robb took them, his other hand coming up to pat the beast's neck. "Thank you, Joseth, though I'll not be long. Make sure to get the hay ready for our return."

"Of course. And farewell to you, Jon. Nice to have you come back if even just for a night."

Jon mounted his horse along with Robb, and the two strutted toward the front gate. It was early enough that the yard remained quiet yet, though even now the smell of breakfast seeped from the kitchens, and some guardsmen trained at forms along the armory. The hounds had already woken, and the hungriest of them barked their complaints, the sharp sounds eliciting a brief twitch of Ghost's ear before the wolf grew bored of them.

"You don't seem to need much help," Jon said. "The place runs smooth as ever."

"We've a fairly well-equipped household, aye."

"I'm serious." Jon turned to his brother. "Father was right to trust you. I'll be sure to tell him things are just fine in Winterfell."

Robb smiled at that, though he flushed at the compliment. "I'm young yet, but… Thank you, Jon." He breathed a cloud of cool air, smile turning playful. "And don't think I've not noticed your own swashbuckling air. Who knew two weeks away would turn you into a storied adventurer?"

"I've only one story so far," Jon grumbled. He looked ahead, where some other men waited for them. "But I suppose we've both had to grow up a bit."

Yoren loitered by the gate, already on his own horse, along with four guardsmen. One of them, Quent, sat mounted on his horse, a wooden block strapped to his saddle. Another, looking more bored than the others, stood alongside an equally bound Osha, though her own appearance was decidedly neater, the woman having thrown out her old rags for a clean woolen dress she seemed decidedly uncomfortable wearing. The last two flanked a frazzled Stiv, whose hands remained bound behind his back, face and clothes matted with dirt and sweat.

"Hold," Robb said, pulling his horse to a stop.

Frowning, Jon did the same. "What is it?"

Eyes shifting sideways, Robb leaned close, voice lowered. "Be honest, Jon. That one story you told last night to Bran and I… When you killed that man, how did it feel?"

His frown softened, and now Jon looked at his brother with consideration. The Stark heir had darkened skin around his eyes, and his jaw seemed tense. Jon wondered how long Robb had stayed up wondering about his coming duty. Had he lay as sleepless as his brother, that first night after Edwen's death?

"If I'm honest, I don't quite know how to feel about it," Jon said, sighing. "I think I was right to kill him, but I can't feel good at having done so. The best I can tell myself is that sometimes killing others is necessary."

After a quiet moment, Robb nodded, hand clamping on Jon's shoulder in a strong pat. He straightened on his saddle, raising his voice. "Are you all ready?"

Watching them trot up, Quent raised a hand in greeting. "Aye, my lord. We've the blade as well." He gestured to one of the guards, upon whose back was hung a hefty great sword. Not as large as Ice, but not every blade was made from Valyrian steel, and so its weight must've been hard enough to carry.

"Excellent," Robb said.

Stiv chortled, though it came rather haggard. "Can you even hold that sword up, Stark boy?"

One of the guards cuffed him over the head. "Enough to take your head, scum."

As they passed, Jon noticed how Robb refused to look down at the deserter, chin up and face stern. Grey Wind, on the other hand, made his own irritation clear, snarling up at the bound man in a low, throaty growl. It was enough for Stiv to hunch away.

Shaking his head, Jon looked to Yoren, watching the man scratch at his uncombed beard. "Earlier than you're used to?"

"I've travelled these roads longer than you've been a pea in your mother's belly, Snow," Yoren grumbled. He stretched his arms over his head, silent yawn stifled by the clopping of his horse. "You'd best worry for yer own disposition, and that of this wildling here."

Osha looked up at this, lips curled, but stayed silent.

The Stark heir led them out of the gate and out into Winter Town. They rode slowly along the main road, grabbing some attention from the smallfolk, though what stores and stands there were out in the market had only begun setting up. Then, at a split, they drew their horses to a stop along with the folk walking behind them.

Robb looked back at Osha, who looked back with equal steadiness, then he looked over at Jon, voice lowered.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

Jon shrugged. "Can't hurt with her like that. You'll have her back soon enough anyway."

Grumbling, Robb then looked down at the guardsman at Osha's side, and the man straightened under his gaze. His voice steeled to that of a lord's. "Have her in the servant's quarters as soon as she's done with whatever it is, then. _As soon as she's done_ , am I clear?"

"Aye, my lord."

Nodding, Robb sighed and reached into his pockets. "Before I forget," he said, "here."

He threw Jon a small leather bag which rang as it tumbled through the air. Jon caught it with a fumble, weighing it in his hand. He could tell what it was without having to open it, as anyone could.

"I can't take this," he said.

"Of course you can. Your purse is barren enough for ten dragons." Robb saw that he meant to argue more, and clicked his tongue. "Snow, don't doubt me here after all that praise. You might travel with a Lannister, but gods damn me if I'll not look out for my wayward brother."

They held each other's eyes, Jon clutching the coins in a tight grip. Finally, he sighed and pocketed the bag.

"You're a prick, Stark" he said.

"And you're a bore, Snow." Robb smirked, holding out his arm. "But I suppose I've gotten used to it."

Jon took the offered hand. They looked at each other, thrilled and downcast, and Jon was glad he'd stopped by Winterfell one final time. His goodbyes before the Wall had felt definitive, and he'd not been able to clamp down on the forlorn air with which he'd preformed them. Now, going south, having played with Rickon and entertained Bran with tales the night before, and having seen Robb as a lord, he felt strangely nostalgic. He looked forward to feeling that way again, when he came back one day.

"Farewell, brother," he said.

The Stark's smile waned, though it held still in the soft glow of daybreak. "Give father and the girls my love," he said. Then, hand tightening, "and eyes up on the road. Safe goings, Jon. You too, Yoren."

"Yeah, yeah," the man said, scratching at his eyes.

Nodding, Jon waved Osha and her guard forward, his horse striding away from the others. Yoren followed at a slower pace, and after one last sniff at his wolven brother, Ghost did the same. They weaved through the thin foot traffic of the morning, heading for the town's edge, eyes roaming about for a mounted dwarf.

The Lannister party waited along the road, just on the cusp of leaving town. They sat atop their horses, looking at the crowd of smallfolk milling about them, eyes searching, Jon figured, for him and Yoren.

It must've been surprising, then, to see Osha with them. She walked now with purpose, not the shameful shuffle she'd travelled with the day before. Even the guard at her side seemed to have trouble keeping pace.

"Jon, Yoren," Tyrion said, hands tight on his reins. "And you've brought a guest. Or will she be joining us too?"

"Not as far as I know," Jon said. He looked at Osha, who stood now with the bulk of attention on her shoulders.

Feeling his gaze, she made to raise her hands, but only succeeded in fumbling fruitlessly with her bindings. The guard made to grab her then, but she stopped before he could lay a hand on her and instead raised her chin, looking toward a bemused Jyck.

"You kneelers think low of us Free Folk," she said, "but we're no more savage than you. I came because you showed me mercy, southron, and I would thank you for it."

Jyck stared at her along with the others, silent. Finally, Tyrion spoke, voice sardonic. "Why, Jyck, who'd have thought it? You were the first of us to woo a northern maid!"

Yoren laughed outright, and Morrec covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent chuckling. Osha glared at them, eyes shooting anger at each before finding Jyck and doing the same. Her words were one thing, Jon thought, but by the furrow of her brow he saw that they certainly came with much reluctance. Still, she stood before them, proud and impatient, but there nevertheless, and Jon found that he could not laugh.

Jyck seemed of similar mind, though for different reasons. "I care not for your gratitude, wildling," he barked. "If you're to thank me, do it by getting out of my sight and serving your new lord well." With that he turned his horse, trotting away down the road, his own face red with irritation. He gave Osha one last look, a glare as stern as ever. "You'd best count your blessings and make off with the one chance you've been given! Now, my lord, if we may please get on with things?"

Sighing, Tyrion turned his own horse to follow. "Oh, if we must. Come then, everyone. Another day of chaffed legs awaits."

As they all left, Jon looked back at Osha, still confused. She glared up at him, though at seeing his somber face she wilted a bit.

"I thank you too, wolf lord," she said, and before he could reply, she walked off back into town and toward Winterfell's gates, followed by a guard struggling to keep at her heels.

Eyes tarrying on her retreating back, Jon kicked his horse into motion after the others. His first impulse was to talk to Tyrion, but the dwarf had already ridden up to Jyck and it looked like they were in some discussion about logistics. That, and all Jon's uncertainties had seeped back into mind like encroaching mold, so instead he turned to Morrec, who seemed otherwise unoccupied save for passively examining the northern countryside.

"Wasn't he a bit too harsh on her?" Jon asked.

The man startled at his words, thick eyebrows drawn in surprise as his head snapped toward him.

"Ah, what was that?"

"Jyck. To Osha, the wildling. She came to thank him. He could afford to be more lenient."

Morrec's large nose scrunched in thought. Then, as if waking from a dream, his beady eyes widened, and he laughed in jolly cheer. "Oh, that! Well, I suppose you're right, though Lord Tyrion didn't help things."

"Mayhaps, but what's that to do with it?"

"Oh, Jyck's got a habit of getting into these moods. He's a tad shy, you see."

Jon frowned. "Don't tell me Tyrion was right about the wooing on his part…"

Laughing again, Morrec shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Jyck's engaged to marry already anyway." At Jon's surprise, he nodded, grinning in the special pleasure of gossip. "Aye, man's got himself a lady waiting for him at Lannisport! But no, Snow, Jyck's just got a soft spot for women."

"Really?" Jon said. "Him?"

Morrec looked at him, amused. "Of course. I know he's a bit rough, but he's got his own honor to think of."

"You sound like you've known each other for a long while."

"Since we were younglings," Morrec said. "Started working for the Lannisters together too…"

As Morrec told it, he and Jyck grew up as neighbors in the low rungs of Lannisport, sons to sailor merchants and fisherwomen. With so many fathers away on business, busy sailing along the Sunset Sea down to the Whispering Sound or up to Ironman's Bay, their young boys ran along the docks or through the alleyways like mice in a maze, their mothers powerless to rein them in with anything less than the promise of supper. The days, hot and heavy with sweat, would often lead them down to the seashore, where they could wave at the ships passing out to deeper waters.

The image enraptured Jon, far as it was from his own childhood of grey skies and pantries filling for winter. "I've seen the ocean once before," he said. "My father took me with him to Deepwood Motte some years ago. On clear days we could even see Bear Island far off from the shore."

"Ah, it's a grand thing, to live along the sea." Morrec smiled softly, mellowed now by the hoof-beat of their trotting. "Months now we've been on the road, Jyck and I. First I've gone so long without the salt breeze."

"If you miss it so much, you should've come along the Wall to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," Yoren said. "We've our own salt breeze too, here in the north."

"I might've, had Lord Tyrion felt the need." Morrec scratched at his round jaw, gloved hand running over the beginnings of a beard. "Though I admit I'm curious to see what things might look like east of the kingdoms. All I know comes from behind the walls of King's Landing."

Lord Stark's current home, as well as that of Jon's half-sisters. Hopefully, he'd join them soon enough, if only for a while. "What's the capital like?"

Yoren snorted. "A shit-heap," he said.

Jon noticed how Morrec struggled to keep the wince from his face. "Is it really?"

"It's not as bad as that," Morrec said. "Far more people than you'd see anywhere else, and it can get crowded. But the Red Keep is a wonder, and from there you'll see more homes than you'd ever imagine."

"You'll see Flea Bottom too, 'rounding all those nice little streets." Yoren spit down from his saddle. "Rotten as any slum and twice as large. It stinks up the whole rest of it." He looked at Jon, grinning at the boy's discomfort. "Can't go anywhere in King's Landing that doesn't smell like shit. Folk massed like sardines, all sittin' on a shit-heap of a city. That's the capital, Snow."

"Maybe so," Morrec said, and now he seemed to grow irritated. "But should you see it, you'll not forget the Great Sept of Baelor. The Dragonpit too, even if you can't step inside."

"Fine buildings," Yoren admitted. "The lords make sure to polish their favorite places."

Jon realized then that the two men flanking him had journeyed long and far, perhaps all around the Seven Kingdoms between them. Wandering crows like Yoren walked up and down the Kingsroad often enough, and as well-travelled as Tyrion seemed, Morrec might've attained a similar experience at his side.

He slouched on his seat, looking down to make sure Ghost hadn't silently run off, though he knew the wolf would in due time. "Where else have you been?" Jon asked.

"Oh, I've run the whole length of this damn continent," Yoren was saying, combing through his beard. For the first time, he seemed somewhat pleased, if not with his memories then at least with himself. "From the Bay of Seals down to the Broken Arm and back up along the Narrow Sea."

"Should I have joined the Watch, mayhaps I'd have been a wandering crow," Jon said. "Though I suppose there's not…"

He stopped himself, but Yoren must've gleamed his meaning by the tone of his voice. "There's not what, boy?" the man asked, lips curled in frank amusement. "Honor in it? Glory?" At Jon's hesitant nod, he laughed. "Aye, the rangers get it all up there, fighting the wildlings. But don't be fooled, Lord Snow. A'times they send me out with the cart, and I'm stuck along the road, but in a case like this with only myself and a horse, all I'm to do is commiserate with the lordly folk. I come down to good weather and softer beds and better wine, and my only chore is to find my daily meals. There's a freedom in it you'll not see from any of those bums up on the ice."

"Truly?" Morrec said, chuckling. "You don't come off as the sort to wanderlust, Yoren."

Kicking at the sides of his horse, Yoren dropped his smile. "Aye, well, I might as well enjoy what little I can with these damn vows."

Morrec hummed in thought. "Well, as for myself, I accompanied Lord Tyrion once to Oldtown. Why, we could see the Hightower from far beyond the gates…"

They talked for a good part of the day as they rode, the first they'd truly done so even in the weeks since they'd met. Though Jon would've liked to attribute this to the strained circumstances of their trip—filled as it was with escaped criminals and roving bandits—the truth was that he'd simply been rather shy himself. After all, what might he have to say to them that was of any value? But after everything, it seemed to Jon that such thoughts had only made him miss much.

As they rode and shared stories, Jon saw in his mind the ensnaring image of stone-topped peaks and blown out sails cast over churning waves. The Eyrie atop the Giant's Lance. Harrenhal and Casterly Rock and Sunspear and all those other great castles Jon had heard about from the stories. Their party would soon come upon the Ruby Ford on their way to King's Landing, and he'd already spent time at the Wall. Perhaps, once he talked to his father, he would act a wandering crow and seek out all those places that had so enraptured him in his daydreams.

Ghost suddenly stopped, ears up. Jon felt it too, though he couldn't place what exactly had disturbed the wolf so, and nearly stopped himself, arms readying to pull on his reins.

It was then that they all heard it. A voice, far off down the road. Seeing Jyck and Tyrion gallop off before them, Jon and Morrec and Yoren glanced at each other before kicking up to the same pace, Ghost following behind. Perturbed, Jon put a hand on the hilt of his sword, rocking up and down with the beat of his horse.

As they rode, the voice grew louder, and soon enough they all pulled up alongside a wagon run off the road, nothing out of place save for the beast which had once surely pulled it. Its tongue sat empty on the dirt along with the origin of the shouts, a boy half Jon's age kneeling over an overturned body.

The boy looked up at them, face pleading, and upon seeing it Jon immediately dismounted. He was followed shortly after by Jyck and Morrec and Ghost.

"Stay, Ghost!" Jon said, hand out toward the wolf, having watched how scared the boy was as the beast drew near.

"What happened there?" Tyrion asked, looking over them from his saddle.

Tears in his eyes, the boy made to speak but seemed to choke on his words, gasping in effort with only strained warbling to show for it. Jyck ignored him entirely, walking around to the body and kneeling down to examine it. He put a hand on the neck—it was a man, wrinkled and glassy-eyed, blood pooled by his head. Looking up at them, Jyck heaved a sigh, face grim.

"Dead," he said. "Looks like a blunt tool."

By then, Morrec had kneeled too, though he did so to calm the crying boy. "Shush, child," he said, voice soft. "Shush. We'll not hurt you now. Can you tell us what happened?"

"Th-They said…" the boy gulped, breathing hard. "They kept saying _goro gran, goro gran, goro gran…_ "

The boy kept mumbling the phrase, trembling and ignorant of them even as Morrec grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to calm him. Ghost came up to Jon, and this time the boy seemed not to notice.

Tyrion frowned, discomforted as the rest. " _Goro gran_ … Well, that doesn't tell us anything."

"Tells us plenty, dwarf lord," Yoren said, nose flared in distaste. " _Goro gran_ , it means 'kill the man' in the old tongue. Don't know 'bout you all, but I don't know anyone using that this side of the Wall."

His meaning was clear. "Wildlings…" Jon breathed, and Yoren gave him a grave nod in response.

"What should we do, my lord?" Jyck said, still staring down at the body.

The dwarf looked at Jyck, then at Morrec with the boy in his arms, then at Yoren, and finally at Jon, Ghost staring intently back. Judging by his face, Jon could tell some headache had already subsumed him, and Tyrion confirmed it by rubbing at his temples.

"Bring him along," he said, tired. "We'll see what Lord Cerwyn has to say. Can't be too far now…"

Nodding, Jyck stood and walked back to his horse, hardly a glance back at the dead man on the ground. Morrec too, plucking the boy up by the armpits without much issue—still crying and rattled, Jon didn't think they'd hear much else from him for a while.

As for Jon, he gave one last look to the body, hand on Ghost's head, before walking back to Steelfoot. They carried on, the midday sun beaming high above, and once again, conversation was sparse between them.

Men congregated around the yard of the castle. Some five of them, wearing chainmail over their leathers and swords strapped to their belts. Rallying them was a man in full plate, a Ser Kyle Condon, his surcoat bearing the black axe of House Cerwyn.

"We'll rout them onto the road!" he was saying, voice booming over the yard so that even the servants stopped their duties to look. "Then, we'll ride them down!"

Jon watched them from under a canopy along the castle walls. Mostly, he focused on the boy sat astride one of the horses, back to one of the armed men. Holden, the boy they'd found some hours before, father dead and soul crushed by a stray band of wildlings. The men would deliver him to his mother and sister waiting in a village nearby, a family unaware that their one pillar of support had been killed by chance. Then, once the boy was safely back home, they'd hunt down the culprits. All this and more Ser Kyle shouted from atop his horse.

"He certainly plays it well," Tyrion said, standing and watching beside Jon. "The role of a knight."

Watching Kyle, Jon couldn't help but agree, more when the men around him roared their approval. "It's not many men they're sending out."

"They don't need to," Tyrion said, shrugging. "And the Cerwyns don't have many men to give in any case. We of the great houses are rare in that respect."

Jon could see that. He was no Stark, but having lived in Winterfell he'd gotten used to thinking of castles as townships in and of themselves. Castle Cerwyn was a hunk of rock by comparison, with only two towers and a no godswood of their own. The thought made him uncomfortable. How much more did the Starks have than even their closest vassals?

"We'll stay until tomorrow morning," Tyrion said. "Ride out at daylight, just like today. I'm hoping we'll not run into any more trouble."

"With our record so far, I'd not be too optimistic."

"Ha! Then I'll be sure to keep close to you, Jon. Let the warriors do all the work."

Unbidden, Jon considered that Tyrion might not like the work he would do should certain things come to light. But he couldn't hold onto his doubt just then. It took too much energy.

"That boy will have to grow up rather quickly," Tyrion said.

"Yes…"

They watched the men roar once more. Then, the castle gates opening before them, they rode out, Ser Kyle leading the way. As they did, Holden looked over at Jon and Tyrion, face blank as it had been ever since he'd come into the castle, tears dried up. The boy raised a hand, waving a dull farewell, and Jon did the same, trying not to show too much of his pity.

Tyrion was waving as well, though with his height there was a chance the boy hadn't seen. "You did a kind thing, by the way," he said.

Jon clenched his jaw. "And what exactly did I do?"

"Oh, don't be coy." Tyrion walked over to one of the barrels set upright against the stone wall. Coiling like a spring, he leaped up and landed sitting atop it. "The others might've been distracted, but I saw you slip those dragons into his hands." Shifting around to get comfortable, the dwarf looked at Jon as he leaned against the canopy leg, face tight in discomfort. "Don't tell me you gave him all you had."

"… Would ten dragons be enough for a new horse, you think?"

"Yes, it's plenty…" Tyrion sighed, though he was smiling. "Seriously, Jon, do you expect me to pay for your trudge south all out of my own pocket?"

"I figured you had enough money." Jon looked over him, brow drawn up. "Consider it a charge for my services as your warrior."

"Should you be travelling with anyone but me, you'd be in right trouble."

Despite himself, Jon returned Tyrion's smile. They chuckled together, shaking their heads, then looked out at the yard. The servants had by then carried on with their tasks, not enough to ignite the same bustle Jon was used to, but a few women chatted away as they carried baskets of fruit into the kitchens, and he could see the maester step into the rookery across from them, likely to inform the nearby castles of the local threat.

The thought nagged at him, and Jon felt his smile drop. Even now, Yoren was talking to Lord Cerwyn, discussing the situation north of the Wall. The wandering crow had done the same with Robb back in Winterfell along with Osha, and though Jon had been too busy with Bran and Rickon to sit in for that meeting, he'd heard a summary on their way south after finding Holden and the run down wagon.

So many wildlings climbing over the Wall, sowing chaos in the north, it only happened perhaps every few generations. Once again, a King-Beyond-the-Wall had risen. Mance Rayder, a deserter of the Watch, had begun to unite wildling tribes, set on building the numbers necessary to launch an invasion on the Seven Kingdoms. He wouldn't win, of course, even if he did take the Wall, but he might just get into a position where the great lords would have to negotiate for peace.

This alone would be enough to worry about, and certainly enough for Yoren to go around requesting more men for the Wall. But, Yoren had told them, it seemed there was more to it. Another man, a wildling known by all who'd heard of him simply as the Weeper, had also begun a campaign to unite the tribes north of the Wall. For him, as Osha told it, there would be no negotiation. Only death, one way or the other.

Two kings, battling for support in an unclaimed and lawless land. Already their clashes had led to a waft of refugees, and when their conflict eventually plunged into open war that waft was sure to become a violent wave. Should the brothers of the Watch not be ready for it, they'd surely get washed away by it before the war's victor even reached the Wall's steps. Even now, it seemed those in the north would have to take more care on the roads. It was impossible to know how many wildlings had already crossed over.

"Must feel strange," Tyrion said, softly. "Escaping the north just as it becomes more dangerous."

Jon shrugged. "What use am I? I've but one pair of hands."

"One and a half, more like. Is that shoulder any better?"

"A bit." It still hurt even as he rode, each step of his horse a tiny nail. Thinking on it, Jon figured he'd been north of the Wall himself, if only briefly, and ironically enough, the most dangerous person he'd found there was a man of the kingdoms just like himself. "That woman, Osha," he said, tasting the unfamiliar name, different that any he'd known. "She gave me her thanks too. Before her, I'd never met a wildling."

"Other than the one who pressed a blade to your neck?" Tyrion asked.

"You know what I meant."

"Yes, yes… I suppose she's the first wildling I've met too. Not many of them hanging about the westerlands."

"Why…" Jon hesitated, then, wary of himself, "Why do we keep them out of the kingdoms anyway?"

"You should know already," Tyrion said, eyeing him. "After all, it was your ancestor who built that Wall."

Bran the Builder, his brother's namesake and the legendary founder of House Stark. The man who built the Wall and Winterfell, and according to the tales, did so with the help of giants. Jon had heard the stories from Old Nan many times, and had studied it more thoroughly with Maester Luwin. If there were any string of history he'd made sure to remember, it was that of the Starks. Yet, in all those stories and pages and scrolls, Jon had never seen a reason for it. He'd never even thought to ask for one.

Having seen the Wall himself, been impressed and somewhat horrified by the sheer size of it, he found it strange now to think that such a thing could be built to keep the kingdoms safe from _wildlings_. The stories painted them as beasts in human skin, as fiends who ran off with unwatched babes in the night. As he grew older, Jon had realized the exaggeration in these descriptions, but it wasn't until he'd seen and spoken to one himself that he could fully appreciate the depths of their fantasy.

"Why shouldn't we let the wildlings come into the kingdoms?" Jon asked, dropping all pretense. "They're wild, but they've some sense of honor too, don't they? One of them did, at least, and who's to say most wouldn't if given the chance?" He frowned, struggling to put his thoughts to words after a day of brooding on them. "They wouldn't have reason to invade us if they were part of us…"

"You assume that they'd like to be part of us," Tyrion said. "From what I saw, Osha wasn't too keen on becoming a kneeler, as she called it, even if it did keep her alive."

"But maybe if not for all those years—"

"All those years already happened." Tyrion leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands propping his head. "What you say might've worked in the days of Bran the Builder, but centuries can't be cast out so easily. From what I understand, most wildlings can't even speak the common tongue." Watching Jon slump, he sighed. "The short of it is that they exist outside our laws and traditions. A few might integrate well enough, but the bulk would only splinter once more, and this time they'd do it within our borders. You'll not find a single lord in all the kingdoms who'll agree to that."

Jon looked down, arms crossed. "And you?" he asked. "What do you think? Are they really so different from us?"

Tyrion laughed. "Hardly!" At Jon's surprise he smirked. "I think people are the same everywhere, Jon. Greedy, selfish, and lustful, no matter where they are. And right now, the wildlings are learning once more that getting all those greedy, selfish, and lustful individuals to stop killing each other is difficult to do without having to kill each other some more first. We all did it down here centuries ago and we're still doing it. There's nothing special to all that." Slowly, his smirk soured. "But should either of those wildling kings succeed, they'll acquire something far more dangerous than any one greedy, selfish, lustful person could ever be."

"And that is?"

"A banner."

"A banner…" Jon repeated it. Brows knitting, he pointed over to the doors to Castle Cerwyn's great hall, where the black axe waved proudly in placards set at either side. "You mean like those?"

His own frown set in place, Tyrion nodded. "They might look harmless, but believe you me, Jon, banners are the most dangerous thing in the world. People will do for a banner all manner of things which they would never so much as think to do for their own benefit. Banners are what raze villages and tear castles to the ground. They're what… They're what break families apart." Something stuck to his throat. Jon noticed it, but before he could ask the dwarf had already gulped it down. "Should the wildlings come flying a banner, not even the gods could save us, for that banner would carry with it the entire history of their hatred for us. Even if this Weeper character loses, his call will win. Mance Ryder might think otherwise, but he's naught but a fool to do so."

They sat in the silence that followed. Then, just when it had become uncomfortable, Tyrion hopped off his seat.

"Well, I'd best go make sure Morrec's carried my things up," he said, walking off. "If you don't see me before it, I'll be the drunk dwarf at Lord Cerwyn's left this coming dinnertime."

Jon almost reached out. Something in the dwarf had changed, something subtle but heavy, enough to have struck them both. Even now, Jon could see Tyrion avoiding his gaze, and realized that he'd never seen the Lannister look quite so timid. But at thinking the word _Lannister_ , Jon stopped himself. He watched Tyrion waddle away and disappear behind the hall doors, feeling guilt and sadness and confusion and a hint of fear all at once.

He'd never thought about politics in any serious way. What use was it to know why others held power to a bastard, someone with no power to speak of? But it seemed to Jon now that he'd been too naive yet again. Had Tyrion or some other Lannister really hired Bran's assassin, it would be in the name of their house. Should Jon act against them, it would be in the name of his own, Stark or not. In the end, he and Tyrion flew different banners, and it seemed like this transparent difference is what would always separate them.

That evening, he ate dinner with the servants yet again. Ghost couldn't be there with him, as the wolf had been denied entrance into the castle, and although he was joined by Jyck and Morrec, Jon couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days in, Jon tired of the Neck, and he knew he wasn't alone in that. Even now their horses struggled atop the black bog, and Morrec had yet to stop worrying over the chances of getting snapped at by snakes hiding in the mud and shallow waters, head turned down and swiveling at every squelch and ripple.

It was why Jon had been glad that, for as much as the wolf had grown over the recent weeks, Ghost was still small enough to climb atop Steelfoot's croup, clinging onto the horse with impressive balance. He could've had his friend wade through the swamp, Jon knew, but it seemed a cruel thing when he himself could sit on his mount and avoid it altogether. What Jon couldn't help Ghost with, though, was what to the wolf must've surely been the most horrid stench the wolf had ever smelled. Musky and hinting at death, even Jon couldn't help but scowl at it all through the trip.

The others had resigned themselves to it with the pinched patience usually born of bad weather, having gone through these unpleasant lands already on their way north. Still, this didn't keep them from mirroring Jon's expression, and they all rode with a collective frown atop their equally terse horses.

Winter had yet to reach this far south, and although it wasn't too warm, the thick humid air had forced Jon to abandon his cloak and leathers and even roll the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows, all to avoid the discomforting stick of damp cloth on skin. Even more, Jon reached up to undo the laces at his collar.

Tyrion, clothed in a similar state, made his own irritation plain to all.

"You were right, Jyck," he said. "Damn me, we'd have been better off taking the ship back from White Harbor after all."

Jyck, brow gleaming wet as any of theirs, merely grunted in reply. His hand, gloved still so as to better grip his sword in case of violence, snapped at his neck to kill the bug buzzing around him. It was a move they'd all grown familiar with, and Jon repeated it shortly after on his arm. Still, mosquitoes and flies and all sorts of tiny creatures buzzed around them, eager to get their fill of blood.

"Aye, dwarf lord, yeh should 'ave," Yoren said, smirking. Unlike the Lannister guards, Jon saw he had no issue with giving Tyrion a good old fashioned 'I told you so.' "A week or two at sea sure beats all this muck an' grime, that's fer certain."

"It's you who convinced me otherwise, you oaf," Tyrion grumbled. "The longer we go, the less I think you know what you're doing."

"Ho? I never claimed to be a crannogman, Lannister." From his cracked lips, Yoren spit a glob which smacked against the puddled water below. "Down along the Green Fork, I said, and along the Green Fork I'm takin' yeh."

He gestured to their right, where the great river flowed in calm, almost stilled currents. Where it started, and therefore where the ground ended, was hard to make out, as their horses frequently walked hoof-deep in the swamp water as it was, but they'd yet to stumble upon any real trenches or mudholes. Yoren, it seemed, did know something of traveling the Neck, even if he'd been the one to lead them off the Kingsroad.

"Somewhere about here," Yoren continued, "we're bound to spot the towers. If not, we'll come across a village drifting down the stream, and I imagine _they'll_ know where to find the castle. It's hard to miss, all considered."

"Oh yes, and so I see why the crannogmen have such a troubled history with invasions," Tyrion said drily. "Least hidden place in the kingdoms."

"I thought it the _most_ hidden place in the kingdoms," Morrec said, confused.

Biting back a laugh, Jon watched Tyrion turn to his guard with an impatient glare. It was an easy thing to restrain, as he quickly busied himself with the next bug to try a sting on his neck.

"Well, hidden or not, we're certainly no closer to finding it," Tyrion said. He looked up, eyes narrowed toward the canopy of trees overhead. From them hung strings upon strings of roots and vines, covering the branches like a great spider web and casting all below in murky shade. "And the sun will set soon enough. We'd be better off trekking back to the road to camp on dryer land, wouldn't we?"

"Ready to give up so soon, are yeh?" Yoren asked.

"Oh, I'd love to see another wonder of Westeros, but I fear any longer along this damn river and we'll contract some plague long before I do."

"I s'pose you'd catch it sooner than most, hidden away in yer fancy—" Yoren stopped, eyes narrowing over the river. "Hold now, there's some fisherfolk sailing over there!"

They all followed his gaze, and just as he said, they found the small boat floating atop the still waters. It was a small wooden thing, with a pair of oars at its side like wings and a pair of figures atop it. One a man and the other a woman, the former sat and the latter stood with what looked like a spear strung with rope, both of them dressed in a dark green which nearly camouflaged them against the muted colors which surrounded them.

"Perhaps we could ask them for directions?" Morrec said, and at once he kicked his horse forward, hand waving in the air and voice raised over the buzz of nature. As he did, his horse splashed near what looked like fallen tree logs, their nearly black bark floating at the river's edge. "Hark, there! Hark, you—"

In an instant, one of the logs leaped up and snapped its great maw, glistening white teeth suddenly coming into existence along with a reptilian head. Luckily for Morrec, his horse skittered back with a great burst of panic, neighing and nearly throwing the man off. Just in time, as the large beast below missed the hooved legs with nary a hair to spare.

"Morrec, you fool!" Jyck said. Without a moment's thought, he leaped off his horse and stomped through the shallow water, sword singing as he drew it forth. "Get back before you get that horse killed!"

"H-How was _I_ to know?" Morrec stammered, pulling on his reins.

By now the log beast had drawn up on its own legs, showing them all the full bulk of its body. Green-black scales, slimy with swamp water, packed with thick muscle, and a long, spiked tail swishing at its rear. Its close-mouthed growl, low and throaty enough to stick heavy in the ear, seemed to signal the other logs around it forth, and in short order Jyck found himself set upon by three of them. All lapped closer in rippling waves, none of them tall enough to reach even his knees but certainly larger than him if taken by their full size.

Still, Jyck stood firm against them, setting himself between the creatures and the rest of the party. "Get back, you lot!" he said, sword pointed forward.

They did so, Morrec sidling alongside Tyrion's horse and Yoren already a few yards behind. Jon thought to join them, but seeing the log beasts wade around Jyck, clearly trying to surround the man, he found that he couldn't. Instead, he grabbed the longsword strapped to his saddle, sliding down his horse even as the blade slid from its sheathe. The heft of it sent a twinge up his bad shoulder, but Jon heaved through the pain. He'd not risk his ranger's sword against such things, lacking in range as it was.

Ghost, of course, had made to leap down onto the swamp mire too, but Jon merely held up a hand and the wolf stopped. Steelfoot, seeing the log beasts near, skittered back on his own and carried Jon's faithful companion with him, much to the boy's relief. Ghost was a beast himself, but the terrain was bad enough for a direwolf, and as large as he'd gotten these swamp monsters had him beat three-fold.

One of them snapped at Jyck, and the man swung his blade wildly at it, cutting thinly into its long and pointed maw. It growled again, that low and snotty growl which ripped across the shallows in small waves, trying still to circle around even as blood seeped onto the green-matted water. Idle as these things were while floating still along the river, they seemed doubly tenacious once they'd decided on prey.

By then Jon had walked up next to Jyck, boots thoroughly soaked and squishing with each step. The man simply nodded at his entrance, and the both of them waited in tense focus for the scaled beasts to pounce.

Another snap, this time from Jon's right, and the boy swung his blade in a sweeping arc along the water's surface. It struck the monster's maw, slicing right through it in a splash of blood and flying teeth. With a frantic, guttural cry, the thing splashed backward, nearly rolling away, upper jaw split down the middle and hanging only by thin strings of flesh.

Another went at Jyck and the man tried his hand at the same tactic, slicing sideways at the water in a splash of rain. His sword struck true, and in some sense too true, for it carved through the monster's hide at the neck and stopped midway. The body slacked onto the water, bringing Jyck stumbling forward with it. Seeing this, the last beast, the one Jyck had scratched at the start of the encounter, leaped forth.

Jyck tried and failed to pull his sword free. Jon made to help, reaching out with his sword, but he was too far—at least two arm's lengths away. He could only watch in dread as the beast leaped up to Jyck's leg, jaws wide open and ready to clamp down like a mousetrap.

In a feat of such reflex and luck as Jon had never seen before, Jyck, rather than pull his foot back, kicked it forward and smacked his boot against the monster's snout. The beast drew back sharply, head nodding up in sharp spasms.

"Good one!" Jon shouted, words coming unheeded.

Jyck tried again to pull his sword free, foot on the scaled corpse and weight thrown back. Seeing the remaining beast already shaking itself from its stupor, Jon dashed toward it, his own blade raised high overhead.

Just as he did, the monster dashed toward him too in blind survival rage. Its maw opened wide once more, and Jon flinched at seeing the teeth so close, a ring of white knives set to eat him whole. They came ever closer, and Jon cursed his slow swing. He'd not make it, he knew. He closed his eyes.

Something thunked, a sudden cracking, squelching sound, and Jon opened his eyes to see that the white knives had stopped not a hand's length from him. The maw closed along with the rest of the monster's body, and stabbed into its head Jon saw a long, wooden pole, pining it down so that it once again looked like nothing more than a fallen log splashing in the shallows. The only difference now was that blood flowed freely up from its wound and swirled out like wispy smoke across the water's surface.

Finding his breath, Jon saw the sole remaining beast, the one he'd wounded before, escaping back into the river and diving down its depths. From what he'd seen of its mouth, Jon doubted the thing would be capable of hunting anything ever again, and it would likely starve in due time. The thought filled him with a brief spark of savage satisfaction.

It was a feeling he had no time to revel in, as he saw that behind the pinned corpse, floating slowly toward them from the river, was the boat they'd seen before. Now the figures atop it were clear to him, and to Jon's surprise he saw that they were young—around as young as him. Even more, one of them was a girl, and from the looks of her stance, back straightening and arm coming down to rest at her hip, _she'd_ been the one to save his life with that spear. The other, a boy who reminded Jon of Bran, merely sat and looked upon them all, green eyes glinting strangely.

The girl looked back at this other boy, and seeing them together Jon could tell they were related in some manner. Hair the same light brown hue, faces slender and both of them rather small even for a pair of children. They looked at each other, seemingly in some silent inquiry while Jon and the ret stared at them in a stupor. Eventually, the girl turned to them, and her eyes glared, as green as the other's but somehow far less unsettling.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she said sharply. Her hand came down to a knife strapped to her hip, sheathed not in leather but in what looked like snakeskin.

Jon's party looked around at each other, and they all finally settled their gaze on Tyrion. Grumbling, the dwarf raised a hand and waved it to gain the girl's attention.

"I am Lord Tyrion Lannister," he said, "joined by my retinue as well as some other companions, including a brother of the Night's Watch."

If the name surprised her, the girl didn't show it. Instead, she crossed her arms, glare somehow narrowing further. When she spoke, her tone tilted up in exasperation. "Don't you know it's dangerous to bother the lizard-lions? Even a baby could figure that out."

The boy behind her groaned at her words, face falling into his hands. She kept her eyes set on Tyrion, though Jon noticed she'd occasionally glance in his direction. More specifically, that of Ghost, who lay atop his saddle in a clinging hug.

"Well, I can assure you that getting nearly eaten was not at all our intention," Tyrion said. "We merely followed up on some… bad advice. You wouldn't happen to know where to find the hold of House Reed?"

"Aye, we know!" the boy said, suddenly sitting upright. The girl twisted to stare him down, whispering something harsh, but he ignored her. Instead, he looked fervently at them, nearly falling from the boat in his excitement. "We can take you too!"

Tyrion raised a brow, but otherwise sounded relieved to hear it. "I'm sure we'd all appreciate your assistance, boy. What might you two be called?"

"Jojen," the boy said, smiling softly. "This is my sister, Meera. We can take you all on our boat if you'd like, but first you'll want to ride a bit further south to store away your horses at the waystation down the river."

Nodding, Tyrion looked to Yoren, who only shrugged in response. "We'll meet you at this waystation then," he said. "Down the river, is that right?"

"Just a bit further, aye," Jojen said. He slouched back on his seat, taking up the oars. Without much fanfare, he begun to pull the boat down the river. "See you there, Lord Lannister."

By now Meera seemed to have accepted this some, though her arms were still crossed. "You'd best bring me my spear," she said, looking at Jon. The boat began to disappear behind some of the shrub bush which encircled the river, and Meera turned away from them. As they left entirely out of sight, Jon could still hear her voice, lower now, slinging some harsh words at her brother no doubt.

Watching where they'd gone, Jon considered all they'd said. Their names in particular sounded somehow familiar, though he couldn't quite place how. Shaking his head, he reached over to Meera's spear, wooden haft botched with dirt, and pulled it out of the body it had so efficiently pierced. Its three-pronged tip met him, covered in dark blood.

The boat couldn't take them all, so Morrec had offered to stay behind at the waystation.

"Someone has to stay behind to care for the horses," he'd told Jon. Then, with a smile, "come back with a good tale to share, eh? I've come across plenty of pretty sights, but I'll thank you for another, even if in words."

The waystation had been little more than a shack, paired with a rickety wharf and no hay for the horses. Thankfully, the man in charge had much grass, brown in complexion, which he claimed to have fed to plenty of mounts in his time. Though he'd not looked like the most trustworthy sort—as battered a man as the place he looked over—he seemed just as feeble, and Morrec had a sword in any case. The Lannister guard waved at them as they sailed off with Jojen and Meera, huddled close on the boat as it calmly floated out from the dock. Ghost watched them leave too, sitting by the man's side, glad to have found some dry ground at last.

Even so, the boat was somewhat cramped. Jon tried to keep from touching his elbow to Meera's, even if Jyck's heavy paddling and the rocking of the concurrent waves made that impossible. The girl, unlike her brother, had kept silent, giving naught more than a nod when he gave her back her spear. She examined it now, eyeing the three-pronged tip, and seeing that she'd not speak to him, Jon tried his best to engage with the others instead.

"It's really quite fascinating," Tyrion was saying, eyes straying from Jojen to the river and back, "I've not seen them, but we southerners have made our own attempts at crannog structures, mostly along the Red Fork. A fool's errand, of course. Nothing more than fancy boats."

Jojen, and now Jon could see he was only a year or two older than Bran, nevertheless spoke with as much confidence as any adult. "We wrap the reeds in lizard-lion skin. It keeps water from soaking through."

"Seems you've lucked out there," Tyrion said. Sitting next to him, Yoren huffed a laugh, and the dwarf eyed him sideways. "Oh, all their danger besides, I think we'd all benefit from having those beasts elsewhere. Or at least what's left of the dead ones."

"I think they'll give you enough trouble to make you regret it."

"True enough," Jyck groaned, shoulders rolling with each heave of the oars. "I've seen enough of those pests for one lifetime."

"Same here," Jon said. He pressed on his boots, finding it as moist as an hour before when he'd climbed up from the swamp onto his horse. The feeling, uncomfortable as it always when he'd had to walk in wet shoes before, seemed to him all the more disturbing with the added knowledge of those things which swam in the waters he'd stood on. Jon looked around at all the bugs flying about them, as if clouds upon the surface of the river's murk. What was to say there weren't some strange water worms or other small critters suckling at his feet?

Tyrion leaned slowly forward, legs hanging from his place at the rear seat. "Here's my real question… How is it that you all communicate across the river? Surely ravens can't find somewhere that doesn't sit still, but how else would you know where to find all your disparate little aisles?"

Jojen smiled. "I think you—"

A sharp strike of wood clapped over his words. "You might let us keep some of our secrets, Lannister," Meera said, leaning her spear against her shoulder.

At her stern face, Tyrion could only throw his hands in surrender. "Oh, no offense intended. I've what we in the south call nosy manners. Forgive a dwarf's curiosity."

Meera huffed in response, and Jon made sure to scoot a bit further away from her.

At the oars, Jyck looked over his shoulder at her, brow furrowed in exertion. "Watch yourself there, girl. It's a lord of the Seven Kingdoms you face." At her grumbling, his frown dipped further. "And what have _you_ that spear for anyway? Can your brother not handle it?"

"He's learned to, sure," Meera said, meeting his scowl with her own. "As have I. All crannogmen do from a young age. _All_ of us."

"We have to," Jojen added. Seeing Jyck turn to him, his smile widened a fraction, and the look he shared with his sister across the boat seemed to soften her just as well. "Living in the river, it's all fish and frogs for us. Can't really grow wheat or herd sheep around these parts."

"Yes, I suppose it'd be rather difficult, if not impossible," Tyrion muttered.

"I don't get it," Jon said, low. When everyone's attention turned to him, he coughed to clear his throat, voice rising. "Well… if it's so harsh, why live here at all?" He looked over the green-tinted river, the bugs, the overgrown trees, the scaled beasts slithering over and under roots. "Haven't you crannogmen really anywhere else to go?"

Meera chuckled, a jeering sound. "Haven't you northerner folk really anywhere else to go aside from that cold wasteland?"

Brow drawn up, Jon stared at her. "How'd you know I'm northern?"

"It's all over your face." Shrugging Meera settled in her seat, and slowly the harshness in her expression seemed to wash out, if only slightly. "Either way, only the gods know why anyone lives where they do," she said, almost sighing. "What use is it to ask?"

"With all due respect to religion, I'd place some faith in at least _some_ of our lowly mortal brethren," Tyrion said. "History can tell us why just as well as any god."

Face set in a deadpan, Meera leaned on her knees, chin sat dully on her hands. "Oh, in that case, please, do enlighten us, my lord."

"I'm sure you know plenty, Meera, but as for you Jon, I'd bet my whole family fortune you've barely read up on much other than your northern kings. Am I right?"

"I'd rather you not put it like that…"

"Oh no need to be humble, Jon, we're all friends here." That drew some chuckles, even from Meera, though Jon merely grumbled. "As Meera or Jojen here might be able to tell you, the crannogmen are of the First Men, having come to the Neck during the age of dawn some ten thousand years ago. As far as invasions go, it was relatively peaceful. Some of the children of the forest actually managed to survive it. I believe they're the ones who taught your people how to build the crannogs, am I right?"

"That's what the stories say," Jojen said. He seemed altogether enraptured.

"It makes sense enough," Tyrion said. "Having lived in the marshes first, they'd be the ones to know, and I suppose the knowledge must've passed down through the years as your peoples intermixed. War broke out eventually, of course, but by then you crannogmen had all but taken over these lands anyway."

"Hold there, lordling, you're saying these folk went 'round the sheets with the _forest children_?" Yoren said. When Tyrion nodded, he laughed, hand on his belly. "I s'pose that explains why they're so short!"

Meera glared at him, but Jojen was the one to break the following silence.

"I thought the children of the forest were… well, _strange_ ," he said. "Made of treebark and bound to weirwoods. Could they really… I mean…"

Seeing his reddening face, Tyrion patted the boy's arm. "That's what the stories say, yes, but at the Citadel in Oldtown, our maesters have long thought that the children were just as human as you or I. Why wouldn't they be? So long since their extinction, or since they were bred out, it makes more sense that those fantastic stories serve to flourish a more mundane truth. Human tribes have been rising and falling for as long as we know, and as time passes, the real events are forgotten. It's why we try our best to put it all in writing."

"Interesting tale, my lord," Meera said, "but what's it to do with us now?"

Turning to her, Tyrion grinned. "It's got everything to do, my dear. Just as the First Men came to these lands, the Andals followed a few thousand years later. _That_ invasion was far bloodier, by all accounts. They conquered all south of the Neck, excepting some very few holds, my family's Casterly Rock being one of them. To acquire _us_ , they had to marry in."

At this, Tyrion drew up in performative pride, and Jon did smile some at that.

"By the time their aims turned northward, you were the only ones standing in their way," Tyrion continued, shaking his head his head. "Hard as it was for _us_ to ride through these lands, can you imagine a whole army? Even worse, those small, annoying swamp folk who seemed to strike at the flanks and disappear into their floating river dwellings made things all the more difficult. They were impossible to find, and yet somehow always turned up right when it was least convenient. The march was tough, and though the Andals did eventually reach Moat Cailin, they came out of the Neck with countless stories about the bog devils who had harried them all throughout. It's a legacy which lives on to this day."

Tyrion looked from Meera, her own eyes glinting in interest now, to Jojen, who smiled broadly at him, and back to Meera again. "You're the greatest guerrilla fighters in all of Westeros," the dwarf said, "and it's all because you have, more than anyone else, mastered your terrain over thousands of years. _That_ , my young crannogmen, is why your people are still here. We need no gods to tell us that."

Meera leaned back on her seat, elbow resting on the boat's edge. "You've caught me at a loss, my lord, knowing more than I do about my own people."

"Oh, don't mind it so much. I know more than most people about practically everything."

"I guess you need _something_ to feel proud about," Jon said.

"Right you are, Jon," Tyrion said, not missing a beat. "I'll proudly sit in my cushions and drink myself silly with a book on my lap. You and the rest can all clobber each other with sticks for all I care."

Suddenly, Yoren drew forward. "Eyes up, little lord," he said, and for once there was no bite in his voice. "You'll miss the view."

Tyrion raised his head and, upon seeing something over the river, brightened in an altogether different way than what Jon had seen before. Curious, the boy turned around, joined by Meera and even Jyck. Unbidden, his own mouth hung agape.

Jon had only ever seen castles made of stone. He'd thought castles could only _be_ made of stone. But floating some ways away on the surface of the water, hidden partially by the thin fog which had begun to build over the river, he saw a castle made of _wood_.

It was no glorified shack either. Full towers, perhaps not as wide or tall as Winterfell's but impressive nonetheless, rose high over the trees on the far shore. Four or five of them—Jon couldn't see exactly—but one stood over the others at the center, propped by a mass of buildings which spread like burgeoning roots over what could only be some sort of platform.

Eyes narrowed to see, Jon couldn't spot the crannogs which surely floated under the whole of the structure, lost as it was by distance and river brambles. But even from here, he could make out the groan and creak sounding over calm waves and buzzing cicadas. It was the sound an old chair made when one sat on it, or a rusted door. The castle, hazy enough as it was behind the fog, seemed to sway and stretch with each jarring noise, as if it were alive and protesting its being so.

"Amazing…"

It took a second for Jon to realize he'd been the one to say it, but no one denied him that. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Meera smirk, the first of them to take her eyes off the bizarre structure.

"Feast your eyes on Greywater Watch," she said, crossing her arms. "The seat of House Reed. _Our_ seat." When all their eyes settled on her, awe replaced by confusion, her smirk turned smug. Jojen, for his part, sighed at her antics.

Meera looked over them, ending at Jon. "I'm sure our father will welcome you well. It's only fitting, as lord of these lands. And as a friend to _your_ father, Jon Snow." Smile still in place, she winked at him. Jon could only gulp in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this section of the story in two parts. Was somewhat stuck with how to go about it but eventually found a direction I was satisfied with; hopefully you will be too. Tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

The swaying of the floor perturbed Jon, even after what must’ve been an hour in the castle. Meera must’ve noticed it, as she’d kept the same knowing grin ever since he’d opened the door to her. Now, walking through the wooden hallways with her at the lead, Jon felt as if each step would send him tumbling even if it had yet to happen.

Meera carried a candle on a bronze holder, raising it at head’s height to light their way. Jon had not needed it explained to him that having a row of unattended flames to line each wall during the night, as one might see in any other castle, would not be a good idea here. Still, the darkness surrounding them was claustrophobic, particularly as the corridors were narrow enough already. Should he spread his arms out to full length, Jon thought he might need only another hand or two to touch each side, and the ceiling only rose a few feet past his head. The walls too were empty of all decoration, patterned only in tightly strung logs, and it all gave Jon the feeling of roaming some underground cavern.

Next to him, Yoren stepped with a confidence that made Jon jealous. Where Jon could hardly stop himself from shuffling at each sudden tilt, the grizzled man didn’t so much as raise his arms for balance.

As if sensing his thoughts, Meera looked at them over her shoulder. “You at least have some solid legs on you, crow,” she said.

“Oh, it’s nothin’ fancy,” Yoren said. Donned in his usual black garb, the man looked as if he’d fall right into the shadows. “Years of journeyin’ on the snow at the Wall and then all over the kingdoms’ll give anyone steady feet. This one here only started on the path some weeks ago.”

Feeling awkward, Jon tried changing the subject. “The bathwater you had prepared for us,” he said, and in truth, it was something he’d worried over even as he sat in the tub, “I suppose it was drawn up from the Fork?”

“Oh aye, we make sure to throw plenty of algae in as well.” At Jon’s grimace, Meera chuckled and reached up to pull at the hem of her dress. For a lord’s daughter, it appeared blander than any he’d seen, woven in the same dull greens as the tunic he’d been gifted. “I kid, Snow. It’s from the river, but we boil the water first to rid it of all those critters that might crawl in under your nails.”

Sighing, Jon decided to merely stay silent. They walked that way for a while longer, turning some corners he couldn’t see even with the candlelight. At times they would come to a passage with windows facing out to the river, and the silver glow which peeked through the shutters flashed a steely streak across the dull grey void.

“It’s an empty castle you lot have here,” Yoren said.

“There’s a limit to how many can join us on Greywater,” Meera said. “Too much weight and we’ll sink.”

“Is that why you were sent for us, m’lady? Not enough servants?”

Meera faced forward, and Jon saw they neared a door that was only now coming into view. “We’ve some,” she said. “But father though to present you with a friendly face.”

Jon had to stop himself from scoffing. For a friendly face, he’d rather have had Jojen lead them to dinner instead. The youngest Reed seemed polite enough, unlike his sister. 

In his grumpy state, and among the drone of flowing water which seemed to vibrate through the castle, Jon almost missed the lighter sound wafting closer. It was a musical sort of high-pitched scratch, like a singing rodent. Before he could ask, Meera opened the door and bathed the hallway around them in warm orange light, along with the clamoring of an indoor crowd.

Not even half as large as those great halls Jon had seen in other castles, this one fit only a single long table at its center. It was matted in reptilian skins, and rough-looking fur, over which plates and bowls of silver and bronze and dark wood lay with bulbous food piles. Candles lit the room from around the wall—here, with all these people to notice, the chances of fire were rather low. And those people were surprising too, for with only one table around which to sit, it seemed there was no way to split the servants from the lordly folk. Some thirty in all, Jon saw crannogmen of all sorts, from kitchen staff to stewards to what looked like fishermen, men and women both, dressed plainly and sitting comfortably on armless chairs. The only one separated from the rest sat on her own chair by the corner, holding what to Jon looked like a miniature lute against the crook of her neck, her other hand occupied by a strange, stringed stick. The sounds he’d heard from behind the door sounded all the clearer now, set in an aimless melody.

Meera led them into the room and toward the table Sitting there were Tyrion and Jyck, both of whom looked up from their dinner with a wordless greeting, already involved in conversation. Jojen sat opposite them with a pleased smile, and holding all their attention was the man sitting at the head. Small and stout, a short, gnarly beard caking his jaw, Lord Howland Reed looked up at their entrance.

“Ah, Meera,” he said, and his voice seemed to Jon far too airy, “and the both of you as well. Sit, please. I’m sure you’re starved.”

Without much fanfare, Meera pulled out the empty chair next to Jojen and gracefully leaned down into it. As she did, she also snuffed out the candle in her hand and lay the holder on the table, pushing it aside in favor of a clean plate.

Next to Howland, a short and lithe woman—this must be his wife, Jon thought—offered them the other two chairs nearby. It seemed they’d been considered even as the rest of the castle had filtered in for dinner.

“We’ve the best we could offer you in such short notice,” she said, smiling politely. On her plate sat what looked to Jon like thin bits of chicken accompanied by… small, brownish beans? He’d not seen any of its like before. “Do forgive the lack of variety.”

“It’s no trouble.” Jon had been taught his manners, so he sat without much issue. 

Yoren too sat alongside him, giving out a grunt before he began to stack food onto his bowl from what lay at the table’s center. Watching him, Jon wordlessly did the same. Much of it looked wet to the touch; strings of seaweed, a mash of fruit skins, and it was during this process that he realized those thin strips of chicken were really frog legs. Jon took a bit from everything, hoping none would notice his hesitation.

“What’s wrong, Snow?” Of course, it was Meera who Jon saw staring at him from across the table. “Don’t tell me you’re a picky eater.”

Before Jon could respond, Howland did it for him. 

“Don’t tease ‘im, Meera,” the man said. He took a nearby napkin—rather ragged as it was—and cleaned the corners of his mouth. Looking at Jon and Yoren, but primarily at Jon, he set down his fork and knife. “I should introduce myself, though you likely know me already. Howland Reed, at your service. This ‘ere’s my wife, Jyana. You’ve more than met my children.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Jyana said, and Jon nodded along with Yoren, doing his best to dip his head into a perceptible bow.

“Thank you for the lodging,” the boy said. Then, looking down at his plate with his best stone mask, “And the bath.”

“And the food,” Yoren said, having just swallowed a mouthful before speaking.

Jon considered his fork, topped with a bit of frog. He looked sideways at Tyrion, who merely shrugged, then went ahead and shoved the food into his mouth. It tasted surprisingly edible. Maybe even good, if a bit more savory than he was used to.

Howland seemed to notice the surprise in his face. “Ned had the same reaction,” he said, chuckling. “Swallowed up ‘alf the pantry. Jyana almost broke guest rights with ‘im halfway through dinner.”

The table roused in mild laughter when Howland held his spoon out like a sword, waving it at an imaginary enemy. Jyana shoved his arm down, smiling. Looking around, Jon noticed young Jojen speaking amiably with a servant girl sitting beside him both their bowls still half-full. Seeing this, Jon allowed himself some courage.

“You and Lord Stark were good friends, Lord Reed?” he asked, loud enough to be heard above the clamor. 

“Aye, Ned and I go way back,” Howland said, the laughter leaving him merry. His eyes, keen and green, met Jon’s. “You and I do too, boy. I’m sure you don’t remember it, but it wasn’t too long after the rebellion that your father and I rode north up the Kingsroad with you swaddled in cotton blankets.” Leaning back on his seat, he seemed to miss Jon’s dip of shock. “A hard journey, that was. A wonder you lived through it.”

“You—” Jon had to stop himself from standing, but he couldn’t help the surge that drew him forward to almost leap over the table straight at this strange and suddenly most important man. “You were there!”

“Hm, yes.” Howland looked at him queerly. “I’d ‘ave thought you knew already. Hasn’t Ned told you the story?”

“I… well, no, but—”

“To be fair, father,” Meera cut in, cheek resting against her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this story either.”

“Elbows off the table,” Jyana said, pointing sternly at Meera’s with her fork.

Eyes rolling, Meera did as was asked of her and even sat straighter to continue her meal. Grabbing onto her bowl, she began scraping what was left of the green and brown mash inside onto her spoon. “What happened then? Get into any gallant battles for honor with a babe crying under your arm?”

“Not quite,” Howland said, grin still in place, though slight. He looked back at Jon. “I don’t suppose Ned has said anything to you about your mother, has he?”

Finding himself unable to speak, Jon shook his head. 

By now some of the others had begun to pay attention to this exchange. Jyck and Yoren and Jyana ate on unburdened by its weight, though their ears were clearly open to it if merely for the sake of curiosity. Tyrion glanced at Jon, brow raised, and in the dwarf Jon saw some amount of the same sudden shock and delight that raced through him. Jojen the youngest of them all, had his eyes on Jon as well, but his expression was the kind of strange calm which one only held when fishing; an attentiveness so deep it approached boredom. 

“Well…” Howland grunted, his smile now tinged with a twist of scorn. “He did promise not to. The man can keep a promise, that’s for certain.” He stared at Jon, then at his children, and finally at Tyrion. His cheeks tensed at the sight of the Lannister. “He’d hate me for it… But you’ve a right to know, Jon. Of course, I’d tell you only in private. No offense intended to your companions…”

Tyrion raised a hand. “I’ve no great desire to hear any more aristocratic scandals than I need to,” he said, and his words carried air enough for them all to breathe. “Though I’m sure Eddard Stark’s sole passionate escapade must be quite the tale.”

“To say it isn’t would make a liar of me,” Howland said, nodding at the dwarf with ease. “But I appreciate the courtesy, my lord.” Turning again to Jon, he smiled gently at the boy who now stared so sternly down at a full plate. “If you’d like, I’ll take you up to my solar after dinner. I’ll answer any questions. Just eat something before you starve under my roof!”

The others snickered at this, and cheeks reddening, Jon scooped up some of the squishy beans on his plate and brought them to his mouth. His head swirled as he chewed, almost to the point of hurting, but by the time he swallowed the stuff he’d come to a decision.

“Lord Reed,” he said, catching the man’s attention. “I… Thank you, for offering, really. The truth is, I’m riding south to speak with my father about who my mother is right now.” He met Howland’s eyes, trying not to look away from the strange glint he saw in them. “But he—my father—he already promised to tell me once we met again. And you’re right that he never breaks a promise, so… I won’t break mine either. And that aside…” Here, he smiled, edges twirled. “That aside, I think it’s only fair that he finally faces me with it himself, after all this time.” 

Howland considered this, pawing at his beard. Eventually, he let out one long sigh, along with a tired laugh. “I’ll tell you this much, that mean streak of yours sure didn’t come from your father. But fair enough, Jon. It’s a talk better left inside the family.”

“That’s well and good,” Meera said, “but that’s no fair, father. I’d still like to hear a story of yours.”

A jeer came from further down the table. “Give us a tale, m’lord!” It seemed by now everyone there had begun to listen in, because soon enough the whole hall was filled with such rambunctious pleas, so much that the lute player at the back joined in with shrill, rhythmic notes. Jon felt his ears burn, silently thankful when Howland readily collected all the attention.

“Well I’ve no story you’ve not ‘eard, Meera,” the lord said.

Jojen, for the first time that night, made himself heard. “Why not the story of how you met Lord Stark? It would be fitting.”

As some at the table clapped at the idea, Jon saw that father and son Reed shared a look between them that seemed to communicate whole sentences. Eventually, Howland relented, hand raised and head nodding, much to the collective clamor of his audience.

“Very well,” he said. “Though I’m sure you’ve all ‘eard it once or twice already.”

Jyana gave the guests an apologetic look, leaning in to whisper as her husband cleared his throat. “I am sorry for the noise,” she said. “I’d like to say it’s not usually so rowdy, but…”

“It keeps things exciting in any case,” Tyrion said, smile sardonic. Jyck merely grunted into his plate, and Yoren shrugged noncommittally. 

Jon smiled back at her, nodding away her worries. Still, it was the first he’d seen a lord’s household act so familiarly. Even the kindest seemed to put more distance between them and the other castle residents. He knew because that’s what Lord Stark did, and his father was one of the kindest men he’d ever met.

“Alright then, Howland began, hands raised to quiet the rest. Once the noise died down, he bowed his head ever so slightly, enough that everyone else did the same, as if about to be let in on a great secret. “Lord Stark and I met back during my days as a young lord. This was before the rebellion and all the rest of it. That would come later, but before then all us crannogmen and northerners dined alongside Lannisters and Baratheons and Daynes and even Targaryens without issue. Well, without _much_ issue, in any case.” He waited for the laughter to die down. “That’s what we did for Lord Whent’s great tourney. I’m sure you’ve ‘eard of it. The Mad King was in attendance, o' course, along with all his brood. King Robert too, and Arthur Dayne and Oberyn Martell and all those great names. Your brother Jamie was there also, Lord Tyrion, to be accepted into the Kingsguard.”

“Oh yes, I am well aware,” Tyrion said. “Believe me, he never did let me hear the end of it.”

Howland chuckled. “I’d not let you either. Never has there been such a prize pool, nor such famed competitors. So many tents I’ve yet to see even in Robert’s war camps, nor so many people. It felt like all the Seven Kingdoms ‘ad crowded into the Harrenhal holdings. Aye, a sea o’ banners it was, with music down every path and the smell of cooking meat sizzling from every fire.”

By now the lute player—it was no real lute but Jon couldn’t help but think of it as such—had begun playing again. The melody was soft and slow; it was obvious that the player was trying her best to fit the mood, and she did a good job of it. Jon could see in his mind the milling crowds, the fields consumed by tents of every color, the groupings of knights in glittering armor…

“It’s rare for us crannogmen to journey so far from our swamp, as I’m sure you’re all aware, and I thought I’d 'ave some fun before the tourney among all this tumult,” Howland shook his head, chuckling to himself. “As you might expect, a crannogman like myself did a fine job of standing out, and not in a good way neither. As soon as I left the crowd, I found myself accosted by three squires. Boys, really. In truth, I stood no chance against them, though I was already a man grown.” The man’s smile strained with the laughter of his crowd, but Jon could tell even this was part of the act. How strange, Jon thought, to see a man so easily speak of his failings. 

“It’s only to be expected,” Jyck said, making himself heard for the first time that night. “Even the largest warrior will run when outnumbered.” 

Howland nodded at the man, grateful. “They roughed me up something fierce, though I did manage some resistance. A nick with my spear, deep enough that one of ‘em had to snatch it from me.” His mouth twisted down. “Though it wasn’t enough, o' course. Soon I got thrown to the ground, getting kicked all over. That is, ‘till I got saved by a woman of all things.”

Some laughter. Meera took a special delight in it, Jon saw.

“It was Lyanna, god bless ‘er, Ned Stark’s sister,” Howland said. “We’d never met, but she knew of me, and most of all she knew I was her father’s bannerman. Came in like a wild wolf, that one, beating the squires back with naught but a tourney sword, and soon enough they skittered away.”

“Must’ve been quite skilled, for a woman,” Tyrion said.

“Skilled enough to beat my father out, at least!” Meera laughed.

“In any case, I sported quite the number of bruises and nicks,” Howland continued. “Lyanna took me to the Stark’s tent, to treat my wounds. Kind she was, and humorous in a sharp sort of way. And there, Jon, I met the man you call father.” Slumping a bit on his seat, Howland sighed in revelry. “It is a true wonder to look upon you, my boy. You look just like ‘im. By the gods, it takes an old man back to younger years.” 

Everyone at the table looked at Howland with a dim silence, as if his sigh had imbued them with sudden tiredness. Still, the story was not done, and Howland leaned forward once more. Idly, Jon found himself doing the same.

“Now, you all know my love for the Starks. A more honorable family you won’t find in all the Seven Kingdoms, and Ned was no exception. Quiet as night he was, but with a certain sternness. He 'eard Lyanna and I explain what had happened, and I’m sure his anger was 'roused, though he didn’t speak much to it. Still, that evening he invited me to join ‘em for the tourney’s opening feast, and Lyanna talked me out of any polite misgivings I might have.” Howland shook his head, a smile of soft amazement on his face. “To go in their protection would be a mark on my honor, o’ course, but as she explained it, my invitation was a simple mark of friendship, not a show of loyalty between houses.”

“Why, my lord Reed, I didn’t think you’d be one for sentimentality,” Tyrion said, though his voice held no bite to it.

Jyana patted her husband’s hand and, breathing deeply, Howland did the same for her. “Forgive me that, Lord Lannister,” the crannogman said. “It seems I’ve grown rather prone to ruminating on the dead in my old age. Regardless, the feast was grand as you’d expect, though Lyanna and I were more interested in spotting my young assailants. We did eventually, o’ course, and saw by them the knights they served. One passed wine to a man styled in the green and red of House Blont, a pompous looking sort if I’ve ever seen one. Another gave bread to a man in brown and yellow colors, wearing the pitchfork of House Haigh. That one seemed strict, judging by his squire’s terse expressions. The last sat with a knight of House Frey, and that one looked like a damn surly sort, paying less mind to all those fanciful proclamations than even we were.”

“What do they say to open a tourney, father?” Jojen asked.

“Oh, it’s no special thing. Just hubbub, really. Great greetings and thanks to you all for coming, have the Warrior strengthen yer sword arm, and the Smith yer steel, and may the Father bless our king with wise counsel!” Here Howland raised his goblet, and the rest of the table followed along with his jape. They all drank deeply, bubbling with laughter. Chortling deeply, Howland turned back to his son. “Things like that. It’s always the same with southerners, in truth. Although…” Slowly, the humor left his face replaced with a contemplative frown. “Although something interesting did perhaps happen in this one. See, unlike his father, Prince Rhaegar did have a way with his subjects. Say what you will, but he was a charming sort. That night, he took up his harp and played for all of us a sweet song the like of which you’ll never hear.”

A sharp screech filled the room. All turned to the lute player sitting in her corner of the room, who looked back with clear embarrassment. Jon forgot she’d been playing this whole time, her music fading to that background space along with the rocking of the castle upon the river waves and the sound of a buzzing sea of insects outside. 

Howland merely gave her an exasperated scowl, but with a roll of the eyes managed to recall the tale. “A sweet song, yes. So sweet and beautiful that Lyanna began to weep next to me. Your uncle Benjen teased her for it, Jon, but Lyanna wept regardless. That, and she poured a whole pitcher of wine over his head.”

Howland’s voice hitched at the end, breaking into a snicker, and Jon joined him. Not for the first time, Jon found himself certain that he’d get on with his aunt Lyanna as well as he did with Arya.

“Still, even this wasn’t enough to sway me from the issue of the squires,” Howland continued. “Benjen offered me armor and a horse so that I might face their knights on the jousting field. But I knew nothing of jousting. What could I do against three landed knights?” He shook his head. “Ned offered me his tent for the night, and I hardly slept thinking on it. I could only pray that the old gods might show me a way to reclaim my honor.”

“Quick friends, you and Lord Stark,” Tyrion said.

“Aye, the quickest. I figure his quiet demeanor complimented my own in those days. That and the Starks have never left one wanting for hospitality.”

“What a fascinating observation,” the dwarf said, sourly.

Before Jon could cut in, Jojen did so for him. “And what happened next, father? With the squires?”

“Ah, right,” Howland held out a hand, taking some time to drink from his goblet. Clearing his throat, he resumed. “Two days passed, and the knights won their rounds in the field. As the third day came, I’d set my mind on jousting after all. I’d lose, but I thought I might as well try and make a good showing of it. But before I could put my name on the lists, another mystery knight suddenly challenged all three. A rather short one, though I suppose I’m not one to speak for height, with ragged armor and a shield painted with a laughing weirdwood tree.”

“Oh, I _have_ heard this one,” Tyrion said, hand on his chin. “Jamie mentioned it once I saw him.”

“And he was right to,” Howland said, nodding. “Quite the scandal it was. The knight jousted and beat Blont, Haigh, and Frey one after the other, winning each of their horses. The smallfolk loved it, o’ course, as they’d be wont to do with such an upset. When the three landed knights came to the victor to ransom back their horses, the knight of the laughing tree,” his smile widening, Howland couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him, “the knight demanded that they all ought to discipline their squires, teach them proper honor. A funny voice, but I was too thankful to care, listening from the stands. Blont, Haigh, and Frey all turned to their squires right out in front of everybody, and laid into them as I’ve not seen before or since!”

A cheer broke out around the table. Jon found himself clapping along, watching Howland raise a hand for quiet. 

“Aerys didn’t like it. By then he was already mad, I’d think, but I know little of what he tried against our mysterious hero. All I know is that by the next day they were gone with nary a trace. I later rode up with the Starks, once the tourney was all well and done. They’d all somehow missed it if you can believe that! Sad for them, but it gave me the chance to practice this story, so you may as well thank them for it!”

Another cheer, more muted. Now Jon could see the tale was truly over, as Howland slopped back into his chair, smile wide, and none around the table felt the need to continue their respectful silence. Soon enough, the hall filled with conversation once more.

“Who was under that armor, I wonder?” Tyrion said. He looked first to Jon, who could only shrug, before glancing over at Howland.

But the crannogman could only shrug too. “I’d like to know more than anybody, m’lord,” he said. “If I did they’d have my eternal thanks, you can bet on that.” 

“Surely one of the Stark boys,” Tyrion said. “They were the only ones to know of your encounter with the squires, and they were missing for the jousts. More likely, one of them was right in the middle of them.”

“I’ve managed that much on my own,” Howland said. “Trouble is deciding which.”

“Surely Benjen,” Tyrion said. “I’ve seen him on a horse, and he’s quite skilled. Besides, he was the one to offer you a spare set of armor. I’d think he went and wore it himself.”

“Maybe it was my father,” Jon said. “I mean, Lord Stark. You mentioned the knight was short, and well… My uncle Benjen is taller than his brother. Besides, Lord Stark’s always been better at fighting and the like. They’ve both told me so.”

“Oh, wasn’t young Brandon there too, my lord?” Jyana said, turning to her husband. “He heard it all from you and Lady Lyanna. Perhaps he took it on himself to defend the honor of his future bannerman.”

“Oh get off it!”

They all turned to Meera, who looked back at them with brows drawn and mouth partially agape, a mixture of annoyance and astounded humor. “Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” she asked. “It was Lady Lyanna herself! She was the most involved, she was shorter than all the men, and she’d already shown she could fight!”

Jyck scoffed. “Swinging a tourney sword and jousting atop a horse are different things,” he said.

“Her voice,” Meera continued, “surely it echoed in her helm. Aye, that’s why you couldn’t place it, father!”

Howland combed through his beard, humming. “I suppose… it’s possible.”

“But what reason could she have to do it?” Jon said. When Meera’s sharp eyes landed on him, he felt himself shrink back almost involuntarily, as if avoiding the edge of a sword. “What I mean is, she’s no knight or lord. It’s not her duty to defend Lord Reed’s honor.”

Meera rolled her eyes. “Honor this, duty that! She was his friend, what other reason could she need?”

Jon found that he had no answer. The conversation died down after some more banter, and in the end, none could agree on who hid under the knight of the laughing tree. They finished their meal, and after some more commiserating, all went to their rooms for the night. But as he slept, Jon turned in his bed, waking up again and again from a dream he couldn’t remember. There was no blood, that much he knew and was thankful for. It was something soft and bright and ever so close. The more he tried to reach for it, the farther it became.

After the fourth time he opened his eyes to a dark, musty room filled with Yoren’s soft snoring, Jon decided he wasn’t getting much sleep after all. Instead, he sat up on the bed, reached down to tie on his boots, and made his way out into the dark and labyrinthine halls of Greywater Watch.

Somehow, Jon found the entrance, even if it took what felt like hours grasping around in utter darkness. He’d not run into anyone, even a night guard, which was strange enough, but he figured it’d be hard enough finding the castle to begin with. Intruders might just be something crannogmen didn’t worry much about, he thought.

There was no yard on a floating castle, so he found himself standing on the platform that served as both dock and entrance. The boat they’d come in bobbed there, tied with rope on a cleat along with some four or five others. Two other platforms wrapped around the castle, Jon knew, and they all led into the entrance hall at its center, which itself led up into the various chambers and corridors he’d just blindly escaped.

The air, fresh and heavy with moist weight, filled his nose, and Jon was glad for it. Looking up at the sky, he saw a muted half-moon partially hidden behind the shadow of wispy clouds. Not even a month had passed since he set out from the Wall, but it already felt like so long…

Something splashed over the rhythmic bounce of wood on water. Jon snapped to the end of the dock, and there he found a small man kneeling over the edge of the dock, hand struggling to reach the river’s surface. 

“Tyrion?” Jon asked, and the figure raised his head.

“Why, good evening!” the dwarf said, returning to his work with nary a second glance. “I can assume then that your lodgings were about as comfortable as mine.”

“Yoren might disagree.” Jon neared, and soon he stood next to the kneeling Lannister, watching the brief, shining ripples whenever Tyrion managed to graze the water. Something seemed to glint between those tiny fingers. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Call it research if you’d like,” Tyrion said, pulling his arm back. Grumbling, he presented Jon with the item in his hand: a small, glass vial. “Would you mind being of use and collecting a sample?”

“Of what? Swamp water?”

“Precisely.”

Frowning, Jon took the vial. Leaning down over the edge, he reached down and swiped it through the water, filling it. “What’s this all about?” he asked, holding it back out to Tyrion.

The dwarf took the vial and closed it with a cork he took from his pocket. Then, he shook it.

To Jon’s amazement, the vial lit up in dim green light. Little green stars whirled in miniature currents, dancing within their glass prison, before eventually settling at its bottom. Wordlessly, Jon reached for the vial, and when Tyrion passed it without issue, he shook it once more, just to see the magic again for himself. Looking down at it, he saw the shifting gemstone bathe his palms in a soft, mossy hue.

“It’s glowing,” Jon said dumbly. He didn’t have any other words to give.

“Looks like sand swirling about in there, no?” Tyrion said, reaching up to take the vial. “But if you’d believe it, each one of those grains is alive. Think of it like a swarm of water bugs, ready to shine at any thorough disturbance. I noticed it as we neared the castle, though it’s more apparent now at night.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jon said, eyes stuck on the vial even as its glow died away. “What is… How does…”

“I don’t know yet,” Tyrion said. “But look at this.”

He popped the vial open and swept his arm in a slashing arc, letting the small bit of water spill forth in a falling crash of brief rain. Green light bloomed as it struck the river’s surface, first from the point of impact and then expanding out in swirling strings. The light thickened closer to the platform, and Jon imagined that it must have thickened all the more underneath. The glow hung there upon the river, and both Jon and Tyrion hung on its sight, staring silently as this false reflection slowly dimmed out.

“I think they’re attracted to the crannogs somehow,” Tyrion said softly. “Mayhaps to the lizard-lion skins. It might be how the crannogmen find each other throughout this swamp. Their homes move about the river, but if they can find these little creatures…”

“But how?” Jon asked. “Rain could light up the whole river, but on a night like this?”

Tyrion didn’t have an answer for that, Jon saw, but just as he set himself to guess blindly for answers, someone spoke up behind them.

“What are you two doing?” they asked. Turning around Jon and Tyrion found young Jojen walking towards them, dressed in light robes. Eyes half-lidded, it was clear he’d just woken up.

“Lord Jojen,” Tyrion said, straightening. A nervous sort of chuckle escaped him. “Why nothing of importance, Jon and I were merely… observing your local wildlife.”

“So late at night?” Jojen said, now smiling softly.

“Well, it seems neither of us could sleep. You being here, I’d assume you couldn’t either?”

“Something like that…” For the first time, Jojen looked over the edge of the castle dock, catching the last vestiges of sparkling green in the water. Judging by his face, he wasn’t surprised to see it. “Water flies are very pretty, aren’t they?”

“That’s what you call them?”

“Sometimes…” Jojen said, voice trailing. He neared them, then sat right at the edge, feet dangling over the water. At once, green light bloomed once more, subdued but swirling softly under him.

Jon and Tyrion stared down at it, both befuddled.

“Are you doing that?” Jon asked, eyes wide.

“Sure,” Jojen said. Then, turning to Tyrion, “You’ve been a bit of a bother to them, my lord. They kept poking my dreams, so I had to come out here.”

“Ha.” Tyrion formed something of a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m sorry to have caused you such distress.”

“Are you trying to keep some for yourself?” Jojen said, eyes passing over the vial in Tyrion’s hand. “They die quick, outside the river.”

“In truth, I was hoping to take some for the journey,” Tyrion said, sighing. “But I suppose you’d know better than I. Can I ask you something, then?”

“If you must.”

“Are these creatures the secret to your crannog tactics? I’ve noticed they seem rather drawn to the castle, and I’d say it’s no great leap to think they’d be drawn to your villages as well.”

“Hm…”

“Of course, I understand if you won’t part with the secrets of your people…”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right, my lord.” Jojen’s feet kicked lazily over the water, and with each kick, the green embers in the river drew forth and away. “We use water flies to tell each other things across the river.”

“Fascinating. And can I go so far as to ask how?”

“It’s magic. Not much to it, really.”

Tyrion smirked again. “Magic,” he said flatly. "I don’t suppose you’d be partial to teaching me your spells."

“I’m not sure you’d have the time, my lord.”

“Well, we _are_ leaving tomorrow,” Tyrion said, still bantering. “You’re right that no single nighttime lesson ever taught anybody much.”

Jon, for his part, kept his eyes on the water flies under Jojen. They seemed to follow every twitch of the boy’s body, swarming and circling under the surface in a magnetic dance. “It… You’re only joking, my lord?”

Hearing this, Jojen turned to the older boy, head tilting in confusion. “No. Don’t you know some magic, Jon? I could’ve sworn…”

“Why Jon, don’t tell me you’ve been hiding all your tricks from me,” Tyrion said.

Jon frowned at the dwarf. “I’m no wizard.”

“But sometimes… Sometimes, you dream,” Jojen said, gazing pointedly at him.

Tyrion snickered a bit. “Why if that’s the standard, I’d say I’m just as much a wizard as you both!”

But Jon did not find it funny. Looking at Jojen’s eyes, green and as deep as the river below, he felt a chill enter him and short his breath. The taste of blood filled his mouth like a phantom. “… Aye,” he whispered. “Sometimes.”

“People who dream are rare,” Jojen said. “Father says so, anyway. Sometimes you can do it in another’s skin, and sometimes it’s tugging at the river like this.” Looking down, Jojen smiled when another kick dispersed the water flies like a fading spark. They didn’t return, but Jon could still see their fading memory, the light in his imagination seeping into him from the river. 

He frowned at the feeling, but before he could speak to it, Tyrion coughed beside him.

“Well magic or not, it seems I won’t be getting my answers tonight,” he said, voice sharp. Yawning, the dwarf began making his way back into the castle. “Pray for me, will you two? I’ll need it to find my way through this inscrutable maze you call a castle. Lord Jojen, a pleasure.” He gave Jon one final look. “I’ll try my best to keep Jyck from driving us out too early, but I promise nothing. Don’t expect to sleep in.”

Jon waved him off, hand doing it almost on its own accord. He still felt slightly outside himself, his own movements seeming far away. But Jojen’s voice grounded him somewhat. 

“He sounded angry,” the boy said.

“I… wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Jon said. Looking down at Jojen, then at the river, he grunted before sitting down beside the younger boy, feet dangling as well. It did remind him too much of sitting by Bran, and the thought sobered him enough to settle the strange feeling. “Tyrion is more bark than bite, and he’ll let small things go most of the time. Well, at least he’ll only jape about it later.”

“You sound like you know him well.”

“Only a bit more than a month, in truth. But that’s enough to get more than I’d ever wanted, that’s for certain.”

Jojen smiled at that, and Jon found himself smiling a bit too. Then, the younger boy hummed in thought. “Jon,” he said, “you don’t know much about magic, do you?”

What humor Jon had dampened at that. “… I suppose not.”

“It’s fine, I don’t know much either,” Jojen said. “Not as much as my father. And we in the river only know a bit anyway. Father says it was much more, in the days of the children.”

“The children of the forest….”

“Lord Tyrion has told a funny sort of history before,” Jojen said. “It was true, I think, but he never said anything about the magic. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Jon turned a curious eye on the other boy. “So you already knew all that about the crannogs and the First Men?”

“Only a bit,” Jojen shrugged, looking away. It took Jon a moment to realize he was embarrassed to admit it. “Not as much as father. He went looking once, for the real history.”

“The real history?”

“Aye, that’s how he called it.” Jojen looked up at the sky, and Jon followed his gaze. They stared at a cloud as it covered up the moon, casting them in even darker shadows. “Back when he went to that tourney. The truth is, they held that tourney right by the Gods Eye, so father went to talk to the green men in the Isle of Faces.”

Jon turned to him, stumped. “… You’re being very forthcoming with all this.”

He could see the other boy shift around, avoiding his gaze.

“I... sorry,” Jojen said slowly. “It’s just nice. I don’t talk much about magic with anyone. We all learn how to tug at the river, but I’ve always wanted to know about bigger things. Meera doesn’t care about that kind of thing more than she has to, and mother wasn’t born a crannog so she doesn’t know how to do anything. Father teaches me sometimes, but he won’t teach me about _more_.” He sighed. “I want to go see the green men sometime…”

“I don’t think anyone’s come out of that isle alive since Addam Velaryon a whole century ago,” Jon said, though he didn’t put much heat behind it. 

“I think I could. I think I saw it in a dream once. Or was it…” Jojen scowled down at something, then clicked his tongue. “I must’ve seen it, of course. And I saw your wolf too, Jon.”

“You mean Ghost?” Jon leaned in.

“Aye, it was like a ghost. There, but no one else could see.”

“What? What does that mean?”

Jojen kept scowling, shaking his head. “I’m… not sure.” Huffing, the boy set his eyes on the sky again. “It’s annoying, sometimes. But I’m sure the green men would know how to read the dreams better. It’ll be a nice thing to learn when we go.”

Jon stared at him strangely, but eventually gave up assigning any meaning to the riddle. The whole thing made his head hurt. “If the gods send me there, I’d be happy enough to leave with all my limbs attached.”

“I didn’t see any arms cut out in my dreams…”

The night carried on in this manner, the boys talking of magic and later of legends and heroes as was the habit of boys. Jon returned to bed thinking on it, unsure of how severe these thoughts should be. When he fell asleep, he could vaguely hear a howl piercing the foam of his rumination, and it wasn’t long before what was left of his wakeful self gave in to dreams of a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back. You'd think a year's worth of being stuck indoors would make me write more, but I guess spending most of it trying to find a job might have thrown a wrench in things. Well whatever, here's a chapter on the longer side to make up for the wait.
> 
> I'm not sure how happy I am with it. Clearly enough to publish, but there's no denying there's a lot of exposition and setup here. It's always weird to make a big deal of presenting information that the audience would already know due to this being fanfiction. I try to avoid it when I can, but a lot of this stuff is gonna come up later so I had to foreshadow it somewhere. I dunno, tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
